


If I ever return to Minrathous

by AgnRadinx



Series: That One Tevinter [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternative Universe - Occasional Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Decisions, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Bittersweet, Canon LGBTQ Male Character, Character Study, Codependency, Cole's Therapy Couch, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dorian needs therapy, Dragon Age Lore, Dysfunctional Family (mentions), Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt, Fade Spirits, Family Feels, Feels, First Relationship, Fluff and Angst, From Ferelden to the West, Gay Male Character, Gen, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Immersive Fade (hopefully), Immersive Skyhold, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, M/M, Nerd Dorian Pavus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, POV Dorian Pavus, POV Third Person Limited, Past Emotional/ Psychological Neglect/Abuse, Past Issues, Shyness, Skyhold Decor, Slow Build, Temporary Lovers, Tevinter mentions, cheesy romance bits, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 103,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnRadinx/pseuds/AgnRadinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Inquisition rewritten from Dorian's POV, twisting Bioware's "own canon" (canon compliant in outcomes and decisions, but not necessarily in their delivery). The Inquisitor is Female Lavellan romancing Solas, but this relationship develops in the background, influencing Dorian's friendship with the Inquisitor. Among other things, I'd like to include a lore-building arc including Dagna and M!Trevelyan OC that will also, hopefully, touch the topics of Cole's nature and Solas's revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When time forgot how to fly

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a great fan of the One True Love trope, so I'll spam Dorian with LIs within one AU, because I'm also too lazy to always pair him up with the Inquisitor or whomever. Anyway, the romance arcs aren't the main focus of this story.
> 
> From some point on, there's going to be Dorian/ Iron Bull. I wanted to see why and how they could work out and survive on their own principles, but that will probably mean pretty much canonical bad blood and great caution with fluff.
> 
> Because this is my first literary work, I'd appreciate any constructive criticism and advice - I don't have a beta, I'm not a native speaker in English, so I probably fall victim to inadvertent Lord Sheogorath worship (a.k.a. Cheese For Everyone & Happiness is Loneliness).
> 
> **Rated E from the 27th episode onwards**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild tw: sentient creature's death

Hiding in the Hinterland hills for nearly two weeks wasn't the best idea, perhaps, but in his current circumstances he had little choice. A lonely jurney to the South punished him enough with lack of sleep, hunger, cold. Last but not least, there was the bothersome sense of desperation and impending catastrophe, accompanying all major events in Dorian's life so far. There was one reasonable lead for now: the Inquisition. Apart from that, there were Dorian's own awkward sensations after he received the letter from Master Alexius. He sensed something unusual happening to the Veil... everywhere around him. Its gentle humming and clinking sounds overlapping one moment, changing just by single tones a while later. Dorian didn't know a single spell or magical intrusion which could do that. A day after, he walked around nearly delirious: one _deja-vu_ from time to time could happen. But spending an entire day convinced that everything had already happened, with only slight differences of little significance? After he calmed himself down a bit with finest red wine, the scion of House Pavus came to a conclusion that his former mentor, magister Alexius, must have found a way to do the thing they were working out in theory. To activate the amulet they made years ago and trigger time-altering magic. What amount of power was necessary, Dorian didn't even want to think. But since it could work, _why_ would Alexius do it? If he wanted the answer, Dorian Pavus had to stop sending out letters in desperation and take some action. It finally reached him that the people whom he considered friens wouldn't help him stop Alexius. These Venatori gained more and more support in the Imperium, and defiance against them grew dangerous. Maevaris Tilani was busy enough protecting her own welfare. Dorian could be endangered even as an irrelevant outcast. So, he decided to go on a restless, hasty journey from Vyrantium to Ferelden which lasted a month or so. He spent his last copper to hire horses, to join carriages throughout Nevarra and the Free Marches, finally to set his foot on a ship to Denerim, surprisingly insular and robust compared with Dorian's standards of a capital city.

As soon as he reached the solid ground in Ferelden, he could take some time sightseeing the surroundings of Lake Calenhad. The legendary Kinloch Hold was now completely desolate, abandoned by the former Circle mages. There was an incident during the Fifth Blight which left the Veil around the lake more feeble, and it came as no surprise that the mages ran from the place as fast as they could. By the southern bank of the lake Dorian's final destination awaited: Redcliffe Castle where the rebel mages had sought refuge after the failed Conclave, and found themselves in the jaws of a Tevinter dragon.

Dorian didn't wish to get too close to the rural settlements at first. But he didn't get too much information out of the refugees camping here and there, either. They must have been dazzled by his impeccable appearance and elaborate style of speech, so rare in the neighbourhood. Or could it be slight Tevinter accent and heraldry attached to every stud in his armour? Anyway, the paupers looked about the same as in his homeland, only Ferelden had free elves. _Free elves_! At times, he was sorely tempted to ask how their life was like out there, like, how could the Southern countries functioned without institutional slavery? But in the light of the entire chaos in Ferelden, it could be taken as somewhat impolite, could it? Dorian didn't want to make the first impression worse than it was bound to be anyway.

Redcliffe was taken over by Alexius's people, these Venatori he had joined, armed to the teeth and quite likely ready to kill any intruder on sight. So the delicate scion of aristocratic blood decided to swallow his pride (and the taste was awful, by all means), hang around refugee camps or hike in the hills. He tried staying in the wilderness for a short time, but he quickly got sore from snoozing on the trees. The smell of resin stuck to his hair and clothes and he could barely feel his hands. Not to mention that he couldn't get round to hunting the endeaing local fauna. Shame to admit, he underestimated the cruelty of survival in the Southern autumn. If that was only Harvestmere, he'd have to hurry and settle down somewhere decent by winter, or he'd undoubtedly become an ice statue or a miserable skeleton stuck on a spruce, with the clothing which cost him _almost a sovereign_ torn apart by crows and wild cats. Plus, knowing much about corpses, he realised that he wouldn't be too pretty as a corpse. The view of the Frostback Mountains on the horizon reminded him that this region probably dealt with heavy snowfall _every_ winter, as if Dorian's back wasn't already assaulted by shivers on regular basis.

Hanging around refugee camps in the hills paid off eventually, as the people camping near Redcliffe adequately recognised him as homeless and undernourished. In due time, probably also as charming, good-looking, and perhaps only a bit Tevinter-ish. At least, the modest circumstances allowed him to eavesdrop on the rumours. First of all, the Inquisition spread its influence in the region, and the Inquisitor was going to approach Redcliffe on their own. They could be looking for just one thing: the mages, though definitely not these from his homeland. As Dorian heard, Inquisitor's willpower alone turned out insufficient to close the enormous hole in the sky which had been the talk of the town recently, though their effort managed to prevent it from further growth. Next, Gereon Alexius reached Redcliffe just two or three days after the Haven incident. He was said to have dismissed the Arl of Redcliffe himself. After that display of power, the local mages joined Alexius with little resistance. Thirdly, voices were heard from the temple ruins soon after the incident: a woman, promptly recognised as the late Southern Divine, and yet another voice, supposedly coming from a frightening spectre. With the the Fade practically blended into the physical realm in the temple area, the memories of that place must have leaked out through the chasm and materialised. Most interesting. If only more Tevinter mages wished to come so close to the unique phenomenon, even though Southerners' attitude towards the Imperium and the civil war in Ferelden didn't foster scientific expeditions...

Dorian put two and two together: if Alexius simply wished to take over a poorly organised mage rebellion and conscript them to empower the Venatori, he wouldn't need tricks such as altering the entire time structure. Frankly, _whatever_ he aimed to do, altering the entire time structure meant throwing the baby out with the bathwater, the washbasin, generally with half of the house including its foundation. The mages in Redcliffe can't have had a clue what to do with the Breach, as the Southerners called the new addition to the sky above them. The only person who seemed to have any real power over it was the Inquisitor, the sole survivor of the... explosion? A magical incident? The _event_ , anyway, in the Southern Andrastian temple about which the Southern schismatics had been so mad for roughly ten years because it allegedly held their prophet Andraste's ashes.

So, something could have _already_ had prevented Alexius from getting to the Inquisitor. It would take place in an alternative timeline, now made irrelevant by magister's crazy endeavour, one which shared its history with the current timeline until some point. Alexius might have tried to modify the reality so he would inevitably get in touch with the Inquisitor. Dorian's stomach turned more and more often from half-metaphysical reflections necessary to understand the situation, and it was just the beginning. Alexius's actions were pure madness, something that should never be. What was hardly understandable in theory, even for a mind as gifted as Dorian's, turned out _achievable_ , and the actual achievement was the most frightening thing young Pavus could think about. Had Alexius proceeded, he could destabilize the entire realm, perhaps even initiate the anchoring of the Fade within the physical world. Was that the insane aim of the Venatori? To venture into the Fade once more, accidentally bringing half of it to the world? At any rate, they needed to be stopped.

For a moment, Dorian's heart fluttered with feeble hope: perhaps Felix was _actually_ still doing well? Old Alexius had no reason to lie in that instance, unless the cult took his mind entirely. Of course, Master dealt the heaviest blow possible to convince Dorian to join his supremacist friends. Magister Gereon Alexius tried to lure young Pavus with dear Felix, Alexius's son, one of Dorian's rare true friends, living on borrowed time for roughly six years. "Come, see how well he is doing thanks to _our both_ effort. We could carry the research on and let him live even longer. You're the only missing piece of this puzzle." Also, to bring Tevinter back to its ancient glory based on Old God worship and the _hubris_ of the ancient magisters who entered the Fade physically and allegedly corrupted the Golden City. But as far as Dorian knew his former master, such details appeared secondary to the well-being of Felix.

A missing piece, necessary for Alexius to successfully dabble in the spaciotemporal structure of the world. Dorian's florid arse. A couple years prior Alexius threw him away, dragging his name through muck and mire. "Ungrateful swine! That's where you hold my generosity! I let you grow through this research, and you tell me to cease it and start _actually_ _caring_ about my son? Don't I care about him enough?" And such. A single moment when Alexius's tutorial felt _exactly_ like Dorian's family home.

It should have been clear to his former mentor for too long that this kind of magic was an overkill _also_ when stopping the Blight within a body was in concern. What seemed to be successfully delaying Felix's end so far was actually a mixture of alchemy, creation magic, and life draining techniques used in the schools of necromancy and entropy. Dorian used almost his entire magical knowledge to make it happen, true to that. It was an insane endeavour, trying to partly reverse entropic processes within a living body in order to empower it. Dorian smiled under his breath everytime he recalled his favourite formulation of the accomplishment: an eclectic magical development which resulted in an unusual flow of vital energy within a body, apparently recurrent as long as a proper surplus of nourishment was provided through potions. Briefly speaking, a part of energy which led Felix to death was converted to keep his body alive, though he needed potions to sustain the effect. Of course, the magic was bound to grow weaker over time, but Felix Alexius gained entire years. If only Dorian could write it all down _before_ he was dismissed, he surely would be acclaimed a magister by seven Imperial academies by now, and he could make his father's jaw drop in awe. The Maker somehow preferred Dorian to ruin his reputation with heavy drinking and the insult continuously made to Tevinter social norms. Now it was virtually impossible to prove that it was _his_ not Alexius's accomplishment.

Speaking of the Maker, the visit in the South challenged even his sparse religious beliefs. Out there, everybody was talking about Adraste, not too much revered in the Imperium because of her slave origin. After the Haven incident, they started speaking about Her alleged Herold, the Inquisitor. The latter appeared ridiculous at least, not only to Dorian Pavus, as the Inquisitor happened to be a Dalish elf from the Marches. According to the rumour, they were one of the numerous messengers demanding amends for the mage-templar war in their area. Most of the Southern Chantry reasonably declared them a heretic. The Orlesians must have gone mad seeing that a figure of importance rose from _that_ breed. What was the most intriguing, the elf had support of two people named Divine's Right and Left Hands not without reason.

Dorian made a brilliant plan: to get in touch with the Inquisitor in Redcliffe and warn them about Alexius's plans. If possible, to get in touch with Felix in advance. To rightfully gain Inquisitor's admiration, and to join their organisation as a proud Tevinter outcast. A counterweight to everything locals had learned about his natives, an example of moral virtue, intelligence, style and appearance, save several absolutely minor imperfections. Finally, to find love... Well, alright, Dorian, that was _too_ much to expect from your suicidal quest in a completely strange land.

The mage woke up from his introspection, hearing rustle beneath the bushes and rambling in his stomach. Just a wild nug, squeaking and scrabbling around with its paws. Dorian hadn't eaten for two days again. He couldn't let the Hinterlands get him stomach ulcers or something. The more he stared at the creature, the more urgently his hunger stifled compassion. A quick chain lightning through the spine. A skewer made from a sharpened tree branch. Dorian didn't even have a portable cooking pot, but he could conjure fire with his hands at least. The meat without additives or spice was bland, local beer – too bitter, though he was slowly getting used to it.

On the other side of the the hill, Redcliffe Village tried to get by beneath a stone wall, haunting with ruins of the old settlement, still untouched since the Fifth Blight. Dorian put his backpack on and followed the route he had already checked out, leading to the village walls through dense bushes, between rock formations. The spot of his choice wasn't guarded too well, as it hugged the walls of the Chantry building. Quick calculation marked Dorian's climbing route: three great round boulders, a piece of chipped wall, and he was on a narrow stone parapet. He glanced behind the chantry corner, inside the village, but a tree blocked out the view. Groaning and swearing to never attempt such advanced acrobacy again, he attached a grappling hook to his rope and threw it inside an oculus carved in the Chantry wall. Dorian could only hope that he wouldn't plunge inside with a loud boom, or emerge from the sky in the middle of a ritual. Had he accidentally become an object of worship for the awestruck locals, he'd certainly attract Alexius's attention.

Luckily, no chanting voices disturbed his huffing, puffing and silent cursing the strain in his arms. As expected, he reached the attic level above the main Chantry space. Dorian hugged the nearest beam and slid down carefully, not to make any stumping noises on the old planks. Nobody had ever taught him to sneak, but wrapping shoes in rags did some good job. Had he trodden carefully, he could pass unnoticed. Dorian found a small space beneath a pile of crates, covered in dust and spiderweb. He needed to rest a bit before he'd look for the way downstairs. Preferably, also to talk to a friendly soul.

Then, he heard voices underneath. Dorian lied down on his belly and pricked up his ears.

"For now, Fiona does not need to know that the Inquisitor approaches. Are we clear?", a fierce abrasive voice asked. Old Alexius. Boots clinking, the messenger walked away. "How's the research on the Fade rifts?", the magister asked someone else.

"Promising, my lord. Enchanter Fiona's mages sent to the rift areas confirm heightened levels of magical energy. Some rifts are reported to distort the time flow. This is most likely the consequence of your experiments, my lord."

"Good, good. The Elder One demands quick progress. One or two more experiments and I'll know. I'll know if I can reverse the great mistake. You're dismissed."

Reverse the great mistake? As to turn back time once again? Did they want to turn the subtle physical structure into molten cheese? Underneath, Alexius sighed heavily and spoke again.

"Do you need anything? Have you taken your potions today?", magister's voice turned milder and more caring. "You don't have to assist me all the time if you don't feel fit." Dorian's heartbeat quickened.

"I'll be alright, Father", a youthful nasal voice replied. "I shall tell you once more: if you're doing it all just for me, there's no need to. I'm at peace, Father. You can still turn back." Dorian's eyes pinched and filled with tears. He gagged himself with his hand, just in case. He didn't expect such a strong reaction, but neither did he expect to hear Felix's voice almost unchanged.

"It's not as easy, my child. Elder One's wrath would be unpredictable if I just turned back. In for an inch, in for a mile, they say."

Only this time "an inch" meant a supremacist cult altering the time flow, so "a mile" could as well be the end of the world. But he could get to talk to his old friend at least, be it the last time they'd see each other. Now, Dorian knew one thing: he needed to contact Felix as soon as possible, without magister's notice.


	2. Friends in the times gone mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets what he initially wanted: a chance to talk with Felix, but only after a small display of magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional TW: sacrilege/ destruction of objects of cult, religious violence**

It wasn't easy to sleep in the squatting position, surrounded by the stifling attic odour, with Chantry sisters tending the altar and murmuring the same words over and over again long before dawn. Soon, Dorian would learn the entire Southern Chant by heart. Amidst the blend of voices, a blinding orange spot appeared in the oculus at last. Dust flickered in the beam of light, desending right onto Lady Andraste's head, as Dorian could see from his hideaway. He had never been a very pious man, not giving much holy meaning to rituals, but his exerted head went adrift into a strange kind of exhilaration. Was that why Fereldans seemed to hold their Chantry so dear? Was it the undisturbed quiet of these walls bathed in yellowish gleam? Chantries back home were shrewd and prim. Either concealing the old cult influence with white stuccos and tall marble statues of the honorable archons, or obnoxiously embracing the memory of old glory with bloody red ornaments and mystical penumbra. Or maybe Dorian had some piety in his bones after all, just turned back to front? As in almost everything he did?

With grains of sand in his eyes, shivering from the lack of sleep, he found a slit near the main chantry door, wide enough to observe all the people who went in and out. The sisters left to their duties. Instead of boots sweeping there was just a lonely, grieving pigeon's groan. And to think that a mile or two away the sky, where all the cries to the Maker and His prophet flew, was torn apart, crying for help itself. And its only hope was a Dalish with a few people still faithful to the deceased woman they called their Divine.

Dorian kept his steps muffled down as he climbed down the ladder into Chantry's side nave, studying the architecture. There was a window with just a few pointy skewers left from the stained glass pane, with a tree almost growing its branches inside the building. Perfect to slip out into the village. For once, Dorian could eat something else than spindleweed stew or unseasoned roast meat resembling a boot's sole. But a visit in the tavern was out of question, considering his outstanding appearance. Among many humiliating activities the mage forced himself to take, he could never demean himself to looking like a local peasant. Especially when it implied shaving off the mustache, the token of Dorian's independent life out of family home. The other face of his wasn't terribly longed for.

He had to get in touch with Felix, as soon as possible. Would his old friend be as kind as years before, even facing Dorian's glamorous exit after a fiery exchange with Alexius? Felix had never held a grudge against anybody. At least not to Dorian's knowledge, and he knew Felix quite well in his time. Hopefully, the Blight hadn't changed his mind over the years. These things were rather unpredictable, considering the unusual magical intervention into Felix's illness.

Had Felix sincerely believed in the supremacist Venatori bullshit, Dorian would have very little reason to trust the world anymore. Or to live in it, if living implied doing more than drinking himself to certain death. Without Felix, Dorian might not find enough strength to face his former mentor, especially with a powerful cult standing behind him. He needed an alliance, and that was where the Inquisition came to mind.

To think that Dorian used to have faith in a deity who took care of His people... The Maker who made Felix Alexius only to curse him with the Blight in the brightest of his youth, one who erased Southerners' chance for peace with a single sweep – that kind of god can't have been more cruel.

Dorian tried his little scouting route out, the broken window and a tree with a view right beneath the Chantry corner. It was unlikely anybody could see him without special effort, with the Chantry building towering above the entire village, facing the humming azure lakefront. He, a city creature as he always deemed himself, crawling in the bushes, climbing on the hills and pondering on a tree, in the antipodes of bustling Minrathous!

But for now, warriors with Tevinter heraldry crossed the enormous Chantry door. Dorian lurked by the window, cursing under his breath that the conversation between men didn't reach him. Venatori soldiers poked the long crimson carpet with their boots, snooped around the side altar, stacked candles, ritual vessels and books in the centre. Dorian's dearly beloved sense of duty started gnawing him to take action. But what were these mad people aiming at? Were they about to introduce the power and dubious glory of the Old Gods to the place? In the hastle of turned tables and utensils crying mercy, Dorian returned inside and sneaked beneath the columns, to his ladder and to the attic. He observed, moaning on the inside along with fallen candlesticks and silver bowls. Imperial or not, believing or skeptical, he should do something... But he should as well remain in conspiracy, for the sake of his main mission.

A bunch of sisters, one of them in a taller hat, probably the local Revered Mother, ran inside with lament.

"This is Maker's place! You can't desecrate it with your blasphemy and foul magic!"

Women tried to wrestle with the Venatori in vain. Would the bastards draw their swords? Had they made enough commotion, Dorian could surprise at least one of them from behind. Fire spells - too dangerous. Not too many manoeuvres at hand... Not good. Somebody broke the Chantry door open, calling the villagers for help.

"The Elder one will end this slave superstition forever and show your faithless herd the real gods!", one of the Venatori replied, cutting a candleholder in half a few inches from Chantry sister's head. "Our Lord saw the Black City with his own eyes, and it was already wretched and empty..."

Dorian's hands were shaking and sweating, a suffocating lump of anger raised in his chest. He couldn't make each and every Venatori in the premises taste their own words, or at least their own teeth, but could at least put up a little show. Dorian cracked with his knuckles and let his hands gleam in the colour of amber. At his single whim, the chandeliers and remaining candles burst with tall flames, burning at least one careless Venatori in their disgusting face. The sisters, clutched in confusion, rose their arms into the air and uttered threats intertwined with thankful chanting. The boldest of them, the leader, shouted at the Venatori:

"The Maker has spoken! Feel His wrath, heretics! For He said through our Lady of Sorrows: _To you, my second child, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame_..."

... _so you would never forget Me,_ or something of this sort, Dorian finished in his mind. Undoubtedly, the morning was bound to remain unforgettable.

Stone rumbled with quick, disciplined footsteps. A young man in a mustard yellow Altus armour strode in with another dozen of soldiers, and called out with a voice so firm that Dorian had barely recognised it:

"What is this supposed to mean? Father gave you no permission to disturb civillians' peace! Our only concern are the mages!"

"The Elder One's faithful believers can't stand the sight of these lies -", one of the Venatori argued. It would be nice to frighten him at least, if only there were any free spirits around.

"The Elder one might as well punish you for inobedience", Felix shouted with power Dorian would never suspect of him. "Get out of my sight, all of you!"

The Venatori left, grunting and cursing in ancient Tevene. Knowing vulgar Tevene must have been a part of their code. One of them kicked a silver case left astray on the floor. Revered Mother grunted with indignation. Young Alexius looked around the mess and sighed.

"Who even are these people", he faltered and held on to his belly. After a few steps, he needed to sit by a column and drink something from a glass vial. His guards and Chantry sisters circled him with concern, asking if he needed anything.

It was now or never. Time to get out of the shadow.

" _People_ is hardly an adequate word", Dorian spoke from the attic. Pidgeons' wings fluttered with an angry whoosh above his head. What a perfect, adequate entrance! It even had aesthetic value! He started climbing down, this time allowing the others to hear him.

"Dorian? Dorian Pavus?", Felix asked, winking and breathing heavily. "What are you doing here?"

"Sightseeing. Expanding my horizons. In my spare time, I was hoping to finally save Thedas from your father's delirium", Dorian said from behind a stone column, brushing off his hands.

"My dear Sisters, if you hoped for a sign from the Maker, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. The little pyrotechnical display a moment ago was just a talented human mage. I'm Dorian of House Pavus, a Tevinter, just like this young man over here. I believe we're doing our best to assure you that not all our natives are monsters. Now, pardon me, but I'd prefer to stay unnoticed by magister Alexius and the Venatori, so feel free to spread rumours about extraordinary acts of divine providence if that's what you prefer", the scion of House Pavus bowed to the sisters who were raising their eyebrows in bafflement. Maybe it was the first time they listened to someone so elaborate?

Felix looked exceptionally good with tight army haircut and a stubble. The last time Dorian saw him, Felix was still an adolescent. Only an informed observer would notice the ill, pallid colour of the veins protruding on his pale neck and temples.

"Dorian... it's been so many years. You've... changed", Felix said with a worried frown. Truth be told, the drinking days some time prior could have given Dorian a few wrinkles. "How are you doing?", Felix asked with undying concern.

"Having the time of my life chasing mad cultists, naturally. Exclusion from the social life quickly becomes lacklustre", Dorian smiled.

"Dear sisters... may we take some space to talk in discretion?", Felix asked. He nodded as his guards, and they left in obedience.

"Revered Mother...", one of the sisters called, clutching her superior's sleeve, "One of them is with that foul man, why should the other tell the truth? This man could have saved Maker's dwelling", she pointed at Dorian, "but he committed blasphemy just like the other ones. I can't put my mind to rest -"

"Maker's will shows in many ways. Rumours spread about Andraste's chosen one who closes holes in the sky and resists armies of demons from the other side! This man may think he used his power alone, and still be a sign from the Maker", another sister interrupted. Now, wasn't that a surprise - Dorian of House Pavus as a subject of theological dispute! Revered Mother listened in silence for a while.

"Difficult times bring unexpected allies", she spoke after a while. "I am Mother Eglantine. We are the few who refused to leave when magister's people expelled our fellow clergy, and when our patience was put to trial, we weren't left alone. I believe that mages should find their way to the Maker as all His children. With or without your faith, magic has served us today. We will shut the door until the Chantry is fit for prayers once again. Until then, we'll remain blind and deaf to your presence." Felix bowed his head in gratitude.

"Good!", Dorian called out with a smile. "Now stand up, my friend, stillness doesn't serve you well." He lifted Felix up on his shoulder and they took a few steps together. "Are the potions still effective? Unbelievable! How long has it been... five, six years? And no signs of resistance to the enchantment or the medicine?"

Felix's face went somber, he looked at Dorian with vague sadness, maybe even with pity. "Let's not talk about me, there's nothing you don't already know. I need _you_ to tell me: what have you been doing all this time? Did I hear correctly, are you an outcast?", Felix asked. "Haven't you found another tutor?" Well, of course. Felix can't have known. Which was even fortunate in Dorian's recent circumstances.

"No, I haven't, and neither did I find my family home suitable for staying. I haven't married Livia, you see. So now I'm an insult to our society, to name the mildest accusation. Been hanging around the Circle in Vyrantium very briefly, but then I found out the two of you were coming to the South." Felix nodded, but the painful gleam in his eyes told Dorian that his friend read much more between the lines. Or did Felix simply suffer more than he was willing to admit?

"How did you find us?", Felix asked.

"Your father sent me a suspiciously warm letter, inviting me among the Venatori ranks. He said he needs my intellect and experience to complete the project." They strolled around the main chantry hall, arm in arm.

"What are you talking about?"

"Our project. The amulet which was supposedly able to turn back time, yes? The one which became master's obsession. But even as I left, I was certain that we'd have to break a few laws of physics to activate it. About two months ago I received a letter from master Gereon, and then unusual things started happening with my... time perception. Occasional memory loss, intense _deja-vus_ , details of reality diverging from my memory. The Veil also gave a different sensation, it was ruptured in a way I've never felt before. I got close to believing that I was going insane, but then I thought: what if the timeline has actually been altered?"

Felix lowered his head, lost in thought. "And I started believing the blight's finally got my brain."

"Ha! So now there's two of us!", Dorian called out cheerfully. "And you surely won't fail in calculating how soon after the Haven event your group arrived to the South."

"Much too soon", Felix nodded. "And such a journey is too complex to calculate arrival so accurately months earlier. I suspected that Father knew about the explosion in advance, that he was prepared. That this Elder One told him the exact date. But I didn't think he could twist the time to get here. Why would he need it?"

"I have two guesses so far: the mages, and the person called Herald of Andraste. The mages have knowledge and mana, obviously, and are better experimental subjects for demonic magic. But the Herald... I'm not sure", Dorian scratched his chin. "Rumour has it that the Herald can close the small rifts, and that they stopped the large one from growth. The incident could have granted them some kind of power..."

"And the Venatori must be involved. The Inquisition could threaten Father's experiments, especially if they gained Fiona's support... So he needed to get to the mages before the Inquisition", bitter realisation flashed Felix's face. "Something very dark is happening, and I've already got involved too deep."

"At any rate, we must warn the Inquisition", Dorian said. "And you've done everything you could, my friend. Don't torment yourself."

"There's one more thing", Felix said sadly. "About the mages. Enchanter Fiona... I've heard she _used to_ be a Warden. They say the taint in her blood receded on its own, for good, but nobody knows how it could happen. If Father came here for her... This Elder One promised him impossible things, but you know him. He clings to every possibility. He might hurt her for my sake. This can't happen."

Dorian squeezed his friend's shoulders and gave him a long, firm hug. Maker only knew which one of them was in a more urgent need of reassurance at the time.

"Whatever happens next...", agitation squeezed Dorian's throat tight. "Whatever happens, I'm here to help you. Like in the old times."


	3. Then, the Herald came in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets busy when a Fade rift opens in the Redcliffe Chantry. Then, he has a conversation with arguably the most important people in the world at the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my interpretation of the Chantry scene: the fight with demons seems much harder, and it is _actually visible how the damn rifts near Alexius can twist time_. Also, breaking the jovial image behind Dorian's first appearance.

Felix trod water and looked around, visibly upset.

"Dorian? They're here. The Inquisitor wanted to see Fiona. I must be going. To assist Father."

The sisters still loyally ignored Dorian's presence, except when they left him bundles of bread, sausage and cider. Little as he believed in any divine providence behind the Chantry as such, despite knowing its many faults, Dorian came to a conclusion that its representatives in Redcliffe didn't deserve their fate.

Dorian's mellow hand, spared the hardship of labour, slipped out from beneath the column. A jagged piece of paper wandered to Felix. "Pass the note. I'll hold them back until you return, then we'll all talk."

Felix walked out of the Chantry, leaving Dorian behind the row of robust stone columns. Something was wrong. On that day, Dorian woke up dizzy and shivering. Green wavy shapes danced in the sunlight all over the Chantry building, like feeble threads of an unwoven tapestry. The sisters, now luckily outside the premises, seemed indifferent to the disturbance. It must have been magic, either from Alexius or from the Breach. Not so long after Felix left, the shapes started humming and gathering into a dense knot. The air pulsated and shot little loads of energy.

What was worse, the time went mad again. One time it was normal, the other – Dorian felt like moving terribly slow, to his great distress, against his own will and habit _,_ if that made any sense. Was the time itself getting distorted once again, or was just Dorian's perception thereof altered? He stood in front of the phenomenon and stared ahead. The Veil was changing in a threatening manner. But if anything started to come out, Dorian would kill it. Well, at least he could try to deal a blow.

He grabbed his staff and stood focused, tense and ready. The air popped like a bundle of restless flames, ripped apart with tiny holes. One, two, three... the holes connected with chains of greenish energy. A true feast for mage's eyes it was, until the entire formation started spitting things out. Dorian dodged a piece of dark rock gleaming with power which felt too familiar. The hole spewed pieces of the Fade. It must have been one of the things people out there called "rifts", developing before his eyes.

A moment after, thin greyish claws emerged, ripping the hole open, showing a multi-eyed sack of leather which tried to pass as a face. It looked at Dorian and released a paralyzing scream, disappearing into thin air again. A demon materializing in its nearly pure form was indeed a rare and fascinating sight. But it would be nice not to get Dorian himself and the entire village killed in the process, right?

It would jump out again, but where and when? The hole spilled six or seven skeleton-like chunks at once. Some of them focused on their sole victim immediately, some were swaying on their thin branch-like legs. The mage separated himself with a wall of fire and shot at them, one by one. Chilling bolts ran through his spine and arms, making his knees tremble and hands grow cold. _Vishante kaffas_ , why couldn't he move as fast as he wanted? In the discord between physical slowdown and growing impatience, Dorian was losing the grip on his staff. It wasn't real fear, he told himself. Not real fear, just the demon tricks. This one could only dwell in the body. Nothing like the real fear.

Then, it all changed. Dorian felt inappropriately light again just as he was released from the terrifying intertia. He took a few deep breaths and danced ahead, weaving his way in between the columns. Now, the demons were slow for a change, all their blows inevitably missing while the mage circled around the Chantry. He swept creatures down with energy bolts and vibrant flames, kicked them and stabbed them with his staff blade. After a while, the speed of events in the Chantry building evened out once more. Shades and terrors fell down, one by one, but Dorian couldn't see and end to the invasion. He could bind some of them to his advantage, of course he could. At least in theory. But the price wasn't worth it.

The demons tried to take his mind down again, filling the Chantry hall with screams. They shifted their monstrous faces into bloodstained horned creatures with their eyes and mouths sewn shut. Dorian prepared a large fire bolt, and when his hand reached out, then he got struck with _real_ fear: tiny embers coughed and dissolved in the air, failing to carry his will into a spell. Slowed down again? He ducked behind the nearest column without difficulty. It wasn't the time, it was his mana depleting.

"Now what?", demons' hissing consolidated into an articulate message. Bloody mind tricks! "Now what, now what, little mage?" But _vishante kaffas_ , how? How could his abilities have failed him? Could these things draw mana, or had Dorian been fighting for so long? No lyrium at hand, just he and his staff... Dorian reviewed his private Tevene swear dictionary to get the demons out of his head. _Venhedis_ , go back where you came from! Mindless Fade-farts. _Fastatis van_!

Listening to his reflex, Dorian jabbed the air above, praying not to be eternalised in that pose. Demon's visage slouched on the blade and was immediately tossed away, dissolving with a faint gleam. Dorian had no choice but to cut through demons, vaguely wondering how long it would take them to overrun him with crippling despair. He even stopped shouting like a savage everytime he killed something. It could have saved him some energy from the start, in the hindsight.

Finally, the door blasted open, and a group of people ran inside. Dorian backed away towards a column. His hands were shooting tiny embers and charges beyond control, a clear sign of magical exertion. Either everything sped up again, or he was about to pass out. Time bending, mind twisting, distorted Veil... it was a tad too much even for his stamina.

"Good! You're finally here! Now help me close this, would you?", he sighed out with alleviation.

 _Right on time_ , because the hole spewed out a howling rage demon. The floor around and below it appeared to be melting, spreading unbearable heat and black smoke, smelling like sulfur. A few steps ahead, a swordswoman dodged a green energy bolt by the skin of her teeth.

"By the Maker, everybody watch your heads!", she cried out with a distinct Nevarran accent. Dorian approached them closer, watching the veins of emerald light twitch, ready to release a new wave of demons. A bald elf, dressed like a vagabond at best, pushed a lyrium potion into Dorian's hands and cast a barrier on his Nevarran companion. On the other side of the building, a dwarf with a ponytail was shooting a torrent of bolts from an enormous crossbow. Judging from the deep, revealing neckline of his shirt, the dwarf must have been very confident with his weapon of choice. There was yet another elf, a woman with markings all over her face, wielding a slender sword and a dagger – an interesting technique. The male elf froze the rage demon still so his companions could smash it with their swords and bolts. Dorian drank the lyrium and soon felt warm tingling all along his arms. He took a couple of terrors down with basic spells before they could get to the swordswomen. Then, there was a short break again. Amidst the humming coming from the rift, the elven apostate cried out:

"Now, before the next wave!"

What happened next, questioned Dorian's entire knowledge on the Fade. The elven woman sheathed her sword and pointed her left hand at the hole, filling it with the same kind of green light that was building it up so far. The threads of energy started dancing once again, this time patching the hole up, making the air in the building dense and solid again. Sounds of the Fade receded, only leaving painful buzz in Dorian's ears. After a while, the air popped once again, loud and clear, with a hissing echo. But the hole was gone, and the Veil – barely thinned down. The woman had _actual_ control over the damn border between two realms.

Leaning on his staff, concealing fatigue with balanced breathing, Dorian wandered among the shimmering remains of the magical anomaly. The light dispersed, leaving smoke-like shapes in the colour of jade. Dorian brushed it with his fingers, inhaling the stormy savour of Fade magic.

"Fascinating", he breathed out. "How does that work, exactly?", he asked into the space ahead.

Maker only knew how he managed to keep his composure so far. The Nevarran stood by female elf's side with her arms crossed and a coercive glance. The mage sized Dorian up with a smirk. A smirk peculiar to Dorian's native magisters, to people confident in their knowledge: showing something in between curiosity, amusement and pity. The dwarf hobbled towards the group, grunting that he's too slow to chase them around. The other elf stared at Dorian speechless, with her hand prepared to draw the sword again.

"You don't even know, do you?", he carried on with a frivolous giggle, turning around to face the elf. "You just wiggle your fingers, and – boom! Rift closes!"

"Who are you?", the elven woman asked. Indeed, he had little time to introduce himself, among all the flying rock chunks and angry demons ready to kill them. He might have just begun with "Hello", on second thoughts, but his social skill could as well have been hindered by the dizziness from unusual misperception.

"Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see", he bowed and put his charming smile on, ready to utter the well-rehearsed greeting: "Dorian of House Pavus, recently of Minrathous. How do you do?" They were doing fine, naturally, because Dorian spared them most of the fun with demons. Shouldn't that have paid off? Even a tiny bit?

The Nevarran grunted. "Another Tevinter. Be cautious with this one."

"Suspicious friends you have here", Dorian tried to laught it out, though the Nevarran must have known almost as much as Dorian himself about the Imperium. And any deal of suspicion towards a Tevinter was valid, even though Dorian usually radiated with friendliness and good will. So, what else could he do than start building a name for himself and his nation?

"Let me explain. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable – as I'm sure you can imagine", he said, struggling to stand tall and not to appear too lightheaded. The Nevarran and the dwarf exchanged a look revealing even more mistrust.

"You're a magister?", the Dalish asked. Hessarian's mighty balls, how many times... It appeared he had a long, long way to go in educating the Southerners about the proper meaning of the term "magister". Not to mention other bits of the Imperial lore. Not that he learned too much about the South on his own account. But Dorian Pavus had never been stained with the vice of willful ignorance for too long. For the time being, he glued a smile upon his face, trying not to roll his eyes too hard, and repeated the same bloody explanation once again: that no, he wasn't a member of the Magisterium, but a mage from Tevinter indeed, and that using the terms interchangeably was considered slightly barbaric in his region.

"I was expecting Felix to be here", the Dalish woman, most likely the Herald of Andraste, asked. Indeed, Felix was getting late, even though Dorian quite literally lost track of time while smacking the demons. Or wasn't it that long at all? Could the rift have changed Dorian's perception of the event in overall?

"I'm sure he's on his way. He was to give you the note, then meet us here after ditching his father."

"Alexius couldn't jump to Felix's side fast enough when he pretended to be faint. Is something wrong with him?", the Herald asked. So, that was what Felix did to get all the attention? Risky. Alexius most likely wanted to stuff him with his entire handheld apothecary after the faked incident. Among the better news, standing on Dorian's own feet felt natural once again and he could do some thinking to cover up for his friend. So, how could he manage without screaming "the blight" or "I'm terrible at lying"?

"He's had some lingering illness for months. Felix is an only child, and Alexius is being a mother hen... most likely." And Maker, please, let them take the bait. Luckily, they did, or at least refrained from further questions about Alexius's son until he arrived himself.

"Are you the one who sent the note, then?"

"I am. Someone had to warn you after all", Dorian nodded. "Look", he changed his tone to more secretive, "you must know there's danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Let's start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the mage rebels out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right", Dorian spoke up to emphasise. "To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself."

"If there was a way to turn back time, the Dalish would have used it long ago", the woman replied, raising her chin with pride. Discussing the elven lore wasn't Dorian's _forte_ for the time being, so he refrained from wondering what could have been possibly wrong with her statement. But the other elf cleared his throat quite loud and spoke up with a sneer stuck in the corner of his mouth:

"That is fascinating, if true... and almost certainly dangerous." A fellow scholar could he be, despite his miserable garments? Perhaps _he_ at least wouldn't leer at Dorian as if everything he tried to say was purely mischevious by principle.

"Exactly!", Dorian called out with enthusiasm, searching for some understanding in other Inquisition members' eyes. "The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down. Soon there will be more like it, and they'll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it's unraveling the world." The elven mage squinted his eyes and twisted his head, nodding and considering something deep inside.

"You are asking me to take a lot on faith", the Herald replied. Naturally, she couldn't know self-aware theoretical mage's life, all based on feeble hypotheses and purely logical proofs, filled with wonder how many established theories Dorian's research was supposed to undermine this time. The question how much a scientist must take on faith just to operate wasn't popular even among scholars in Imperial Circles, though. It could do harm to their self-confidence. Anyway, Alexius surprised everybody, whether rational or taking things on faith.

"I know what I'm talking about. I helped develop this magic", Dorian whined. Now, how long would it take them to draw their swords and chain him after this confession?

What? No chaining? No opportunity to spin fantasies of future torture?

"When I was still Alexius's apprentice, it was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work", Dorian carried on, since he was apparently allowed to. What was worse, Alexius couldn't realise that doing the same calculations over and over again wouldn't change the outcome in his favour. Dorian frowned and scratched his chin. "What I don't understand is _why_ he's doing it. Ripping time to shreds just to gain a few hundred lackeys?"

Heavy footsteps echoed in one of Chantry's side rooms. A young man in mustard yellow armour emerged from the shadows. Felix! Finally!

"He didn't do it for them", young Alexius adressed the Herald and looked at Dorian with an apology.

"Took you long enough! Is he getting suspicious?"

"No, but I shouldn't have played the illness card. I though he'd be fussing over me all day." Felix stood at Dorian's side and looked at the Inquisition members. "My father's joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves _Venatori_. And I can tell you one thing: whatever he's done for them, he's done it to get to you."

"Why would he twist the time and take the mage rebellion over just to get to me?", the Herald asked.

"They're obsessed with you, but I don't know why", Felix shook his head. "Perhaps because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?"

"You _can_ close the rifts", Dorian added. "Maybe there's a connection? Or they see you as a threat?" Maybe the Herald herself could finally provide some answers for a change? Being overwhelmed with questions surely wasn't only Dorian's problem at the time, and the Southerners seemed to hope that the Herald would give them answers. But at face value, she appeared just another bewildered mortal, only with a sparkling scar on her hand which could close these rifts. So little, yet enough to give the world some hope.

"If the Venatori are behind those rifts, or the Breach in the sky, they're even worse than I thought", Felix carried on. But of course, the first thing the Inquisition did was question his motives. "I love my father, and I love my country. But this? Cults? Time magic? What he's doing now is madness. For his own sake, you have to stop him." Sadly, it appeared that master Gereon had been lost to reason for years now. Irrevocably, most likely. Dorian shrugged at the thought of harming his former mentor, though it was inevitable.

"It would also be nice if he didn't rip a hole in time. There's already a hole in the sky", he said.

"Do you have any suggestions, then?", the Herald asked. How quickly she decided to rely on Dorian's judgment! Good for both of them, maybe they'd find common ground. Though it seemed quite unlikely for now.

"You know you're his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage", Dorian replied to his new acquaintance. "Unfortunately, I can't aid you all the time. I can't stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn't know I'm here, and I want to keep it that way for now. But whenever you're ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I'll be in touch." And in this context, _touch_ could only mean moving out to the mountains and trying to access Inquisition's headquarters in Haven by himself. Dorian turned away and took a few steps towards the side entrance, weighting his final words, but not the ones to be aimed at the Herald. His goodbye with Felix needed to be graceful and moving, just like...

"Oh, And... Felix? Try not to get yourself killed", he uttered, hoping that nobody detected the gentle crack in his voice. _Damn you, Pavus_. Whenever he _really_ tried to show concern for his friends, he ended up sounding like a pompous arsehole. As if Felix's life was in anybody else than Maker's hands. Dorian's friend shook his head in disapproval, following him with his eyes embedded in dark, pallid circles.

"There are worse things than dying, Dorian", the mage heard on exit, rushing out of the main Chantry hall, just to finally stop concealing his fatigue. This time, he couldn't look back at Felix. That wasn't how he wanted to bid his old friend farewell. Dorian rushed out of the Chantry building, not giving a shit about being noticed anymore, and crawled through the village wall into dense bushes for the last time. Only then did he feel completely numb, in both his mind and body, pondering how come he managed to survive on that day. He plunged into leaves, smelling humid forest cover, wondering which part of his body the ants would try devouring first. Forget warm beds and sheets, forget the civilization. For a moment, his body felt like merging with the forest underneath, letting him sink in and become all he should have ever been. An eternally peaceful chunk of soil, immune to all the hastle of the living. Everything a body could become in its final rest, unless some mad necromancer felt a need to use it for his own means.

What could be Felix thinking of Dorian, after all these years, seeing him hide behind the old mascarade of recklessness? That he was wasting away, oblivious to his true purpose? Tossing about hopelessly? Failing to learn from both Felix's and his own misfortune? _There are worse things than dying, Dorian_. Sure there were. One could always be forced to face the imminent demise of their best friends and lose the last reason to see another day. Indeed, that was a tad worse than dying. Actually, dying at that point wasn't the worst idea, but there was no need to make it look suicidal. Dorian could at least pretend to be helping save the world on the way.

So, he rose and brushed his trousers off, frightened by the prospect of ants crawling all over his back. Overcoming the throbbing pain in his joints, he set off to the new adventure of disputable value, to freeze his arse and mind off before he'd catch the first carriage to Haven. The Southern illness was contagious: now, the Herald of Andraste also was _his_ last hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this episode, I rewrote chunks of dialogue from the game. It looks awkward to me in the hindsight, even if the canon statements gained a deeper context. So I think I'll avoid it in the future as much as possible.


	4. A stranger in Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Inquisition make the mutual not-so-great first impression. But such things can happen when a man from arguably the most hated country tries to simply walk into Haven.

For a moment, inhabitants of the Inquisition's main quarters in Haven could think they misheard quite a commotion, too busy setting the camp up before more refugees from the Hinterlands arrived, or tending to their daily tasks. But the agitation outside the gates wouldn't disappear. Guards' armours clank loudly. Outside the fences, a man was shouting. His Trade Tongue was laid on with a funny groaning accent, neither Fereldan, nor Orlesian, not even similar with Seeker Pentaghast's Nevarran. They dragged him through the camp, to a dungeon underneath the Chantry building, letting foreign shouts and curses reach the troubled sky.

"Canavaaarum, I tell you for the last time, I met the Inquisitor in Redcliffe, and offered her help with Alexius! Let me see her, she'll explain everything..."

"Silence, Tevinter!", the guard interrupted. "And don't brace you legs against the ground, dammit! Unless you prefer being tied up like a pig!"

The prisoner mumbled that he might, under slightly different circumstances, and he got a jab in the ribs in reply. The guards couldn't afford to make a fuss about every bothersome individual. The Chantry door opened for them, the soldiers sent for a Commander. The stranger was taken downstairs through a poorly lit corridor with a chandelier unwittingly stroking everybody beyond average height. He was taken to a little square dungeon bathed in almost complete darkness. The threw him onto the ground in the centre and chained his arms tight behind his back.

"Straight on the cold floor? _Vishante kaffas_ , it'll only give me a cold in my bladder...", the prisoner mumbled under his breath.

"You hear it? He doesn't want to catch a cold", a guard sneered. "How's that Imperium still standing if even their infiltrators need to ruffle their feathers like pheasants?"

"I've approached peacefully. Hasn't that given you food for thought?", the prisoner asked, wiggling about on his knees.

"It crossed my mind that you talk too much", one of the guards replied. Heavy knight boots stomped and a figure with a dense fur collar appeared in the door. The darkness barely allowed to tell any facial features.

"Search him before he pulls something out!", a voice thumped through the corridor.

"With my arms tied like that? What do you expect, a staff down my arse?"

"A magister", the interrogator in furs grit his teeth so loud it resonated in the room, and the prisoner rolled his eyes, cursing in some foreign tongue. "Try to use your magic once and you will never leave this dungeon", he blustered at the prisoner. "And pray to the Maker I don't decide to use my powers on you."

"Oh, you must be one of those specially trained templars", the Tevinter replied, a trace of curiosity in his tone struggling with hostility.

"It's Commander, and I'm the one asking questions", Commander walked in circles around the prisoner. "What are you looking for in Haven? Did magister Alexius send you? What are you, a spy, a messenger?"

The prisoner sighed ostentaciously and spoke up: "I am Dorian of House Pavus, and I come on my own behalf to cooperate with the Inquisition _against_ the Venatori and magister Alexius. As I have told the Inquisitor. Why won't you send for her, or her companions who were in Redcliffe as well?", he spat his words out with impatience. Silence ensued for a longer while.

"Who else was there?"

"A Nevarran swordswoman, a dwarven crossbowman, and an elven apostate. A rather unique combination, and you should have no problems tracking them down", Dorian of House Pavus replied.

"Don't act so smug. The Herald, Seeker and the apostate are investigating the Hinterlands, and it's hard to tell when they're back. But we'll send them a word. All you can count on right now is the dwarf. Send for Tethras. And Sister Leliana, if she's available", Commander ordered to one of the guards and crossed his arms on his chest. "From a house, you say? A noble?"

"Yes."

"One of those who rule Tevinter?"

"My father is a member of the Magisterium, so yes, my family takes part in the governance."

"Better not try to boss around here. One mage rebellion indentured by a magister is more than enough." Footsteps echoed in the dungeon once more. A hooded woman and the dwarf in the gaping poppy red shirt entered.

"This man claims he met you in Redcliffe when the Inquisitor negotiated with Alexius", Commander turned to the dwarf who approached the prisoner with a torch.

"Yeah. The sparkling Chantry saver who now wants to save us all. Might be hard to find a more Tevinter face in the area", the dwarf chuckled, fixing the Tevinter with his narrow eyes wrapped in a cunning frown, as if he wanted to steal all his secrets.

"Did he offer anything to the Inquisition?", Commander asked.

"He was talking about Alexius using some crazy magic to threaten the Herald and keep Enchanter Fiona's mages. Said to contact us if we wanted to deal with the magister. He might understand this crap better than any of us", the dwarf looked at the tall man in fur.

"Well?", the prisoner asked with a smug I-told-you smile.

"You're free to go. I mean Varric, not you!", Commander got ahead of prisoner's reply.

"And I was already expecting we proceed to a warm-up tea party", the Tevinter mumbled. Commander snapped.

"Let me talk to him", the hooded woman spoke with a sweet high-pitched voice and Orlesian accent. "I'd fancy a cup of tea."

"A voice of reason! I don't think I would be very useful frozen to the marrow on the bare stone floor", the prisoner said.

"Is it just me or someone's spoiled?", Commander scoffed. "Hand him to Divine's Left Hand. We'll keep our eyes on you, Tevinter."

"No doubt about that", he mumbled, though he'd probably prefer being watched in a less apprehensive manner. What did matter, he could stand up from the cobblestone floor and get his knees used to walking once again. As the Commander ordered, the chains on his arms remained. Detention and the cold, likely followed by starvation and demeaning ignorance, for hours if not days – that wasn't how he imagined his beginnings with the Inquisition. Not that Dorian expected a warm hug and invitation to the table anywhere he could get a foothold.

He was dragged about again upstairs, to an austere room holding a sturdy bed, a desk and a tiny Andraste shrine with a dozen slender red candles burning. Must have been a sister's cell, judging from the lack of any decoration which would grant the place a touch of redundant individuality. Anyway, seemed like the inhabitant couldn't afford to be sentimental in a time like this. The guards kept Dorian standing until the Orlesian woman reappeared, removing her hood and showing bob-cut red hair. Then, they both sat on the opposite sides of the desk.

"Unchain him", the woman said, and a moment later Dorian felt relieving lightness in his wrists. "Please forgive us the earlier treatment. With a group from Tevinter as our temporary target, we must have taken safety measures. While Commander might not have been prepared for your arrival, I've kept my eyes on you for a while. It wasn't too difficult", she said playfully with a sweet smile combined with cold murderer's gaze. So, Inquisition's spies probably have known about Dorian Pavus all along, and now he was speaking to their main coordinator. Woman's frightening know-it-all gaze and noncoercive self-assertion indicated that he was dealing with a court game player. At least that's how it always looked like in a noble house eager to stick its secret agents into every corner of the Imperium.

"Does that mean I'm relieved from all the charges?", he asked.

"For now. The reports about you show that you avoided magister Alexius's people. Which might confirm your intentions, and brings another important question: a member of a renowned house comes to the South all alone, unescorted and without resources? Somebody's on a run, or acting against their house's policy. Not to name other possibilities."

The prisoner drew his brows together and narrowed ash grey eyes embedded in kohl. Of course his family wouldn't be concerned in a friendly and supporting manner. If only Father could see it, Dorian of House Pavus held captive by the Southern heretics! He'd probably donate to the cause, with a blessing, hoping that his only child could see through all his mistakes. Then send people to _once again_ save Dorian from his erratic choices.

"That... would be a bit uncalled for", he replied with much less confidence than he intened.

"I'm sure our Ambassador could send a word to Tevinter if you want. Whom she'll contact, it all depends on your cooperation", the woman carried on with a cunning smile. "Of course, we'll make sure to confirm your identity first, just for the record." At least he could rest assured that the Inquisition's intelligence was doing its job. It was stupid to expect they wouldn't be onto him, had the cooperation taken an unexpected course.

"Since you're so knowledgable, my Lady, there's absolutely no need to discuss these matters prematurely", he bowed his head in diplomatic consent. Unlike a jab under the ribs, the secrets he thought he had left behind could thwart his plans, and it was a matter of time Inquisition's forces learned them. And so, Dorian learned why the woman gave up on physical bondage so easily. She just gave him a bite of a carrot before whipping his arse.

"Good. Now, could you tell me about your suspicions towards the magister?" What could he have done? He explained everything he learned in conspiracy with Felix: that the amulet worked, that something attracted those Venatori to the Herald of Andraste. He mentioned Alexius's weakness for his son's health, even his thought-provoking disappearance from Minrathous years prior. The woman released Dorian with a promise that he'd be able to walk freely around the camp and granted a piece of roof over his head. Naturally, from now on he had to work on their request so they could find out more about the Breach and Herald's scar.

The village was wearing lovely autumn shades of gold, fiery orange and deep olive green. Sadly, the tall fences didn't allow him to look at the tiny, charming emerald-spotted lake. Would be a nice place for a landscape, sadly Dorian didn't consider carrying an easel on his shoulders all the way from Tevinter. In the last days of Kingsway, the place could soon expect the first snow lingering even below the ever-white Frostback Mountain peaks.

The prisoner promptly regretted not wearing a thicker everknit robe underneath his favourite leather armour which left his entire arm exposed. The guards confiscated his backpack, and they'd now surely mistreat his favourite books, personal belongings and magical tools. As soon as he left the Chantry building, whatever little heat it held inside, he could see thin mist follow his every breath. Looking for a place to warm up, he approached a small fireplace by the main gate, near to weapon merchant's stand. Luckily or not, the dwarf who had witnessed before enjoyed the spot as well.

"Andraste's holy knickers!", the dwarf laughed at the guest from Tevinter. "You chose the worst way to advocate for yourself. You can't just run into a half-military camp swarmed with Chantry clerks and templars, and yell on the top of your lungs: I'm not like the others! I shine with virtue and I come to help everyone!", the dwarf mimicked prisoner's excited tone. "That makes everyone wonder what's the _ulterior_ motive."

"But that's exactly the truth, with no strings attached!", the prisoner replied, agitated.

"The part with virtue or the part about being a snitch?", the dwarf sneered. "Don't worry, if they really suspected you were a snitch, the scouts wouldn't have let you reach the mountain basin."

"What do you think I should have done, then?"

"Should have added a pinch of salt. A petty, dark motive. Should have shown that the magister stepped on your toe. That would have made a better story."

"Well, under the current circumtances I'd rather be true than colourful. Not that I can't achieve both at once."

"Since you're walking on the loose, Sister Nightingale probably already put the screws on you?", Dorian's companion tilted his head. "Being watched by her little birds is unnerving but still much better than rotting underground."

"At any rate, you spoke in my favour. For which I'm grateful", the Tevinter bowed.

"Let's not get crazy with that. I can look at people as people, not the good guys and the bad guys. Though sometimes it would be more convenient", the dwarf replied heavily, sighing as if he was fatigued. "But I don't think I had the chance to introduce. Varric Tethras of Kirkwall. You might have heard of my stories", they shook hands like two Free Marchers. Of two Tethrases Dorian had ever heard of, one wrote a few horrible spicy romance novels, and the other was Maevaris Tilani's husband and main political ally. The latter helped Mae shake the Imperium to its foundations for a few years, until he _unluckily_ fell from a terrace in the Minrathous Proving Grounds. A rather nasty business.

"Yes, I've heard the name. Are you someone important? Like, a deshyr?", the Tevinter asked.

"No, not for all the gold of Orzammar", Varric chuckled. "Deshyrs and deshyrs are like magisters and magisters. People call every dwarven merchant or rich artisan a deshyr, but the real ones never leave to the surface. They're the Assembly and your Ambassadoria. As for me, I have never been to Orzammar. Born on the surface, grew into Kirkwall. I'm a bit of a merchant, a bit of a banker, a bit of a writer. Recently fighting evil with my crossbow and my wit."

"But the other Tethrases I've heard of were disgustingly rich and influential."

"Not my closest family. We had to leave to the surface after Grandpa lost his bet on the Provings and disowned half of the family in a drunken amok. A word of a head of a Noble cast house is final and undisputed. When Gramps sobered up, we were halfway through to Denerim. You should know what life can be among filthy aristocrats", the dwarf looked him up and down. Something told Dorian that the dwarf had made it all up on spot.

"How could you tell that?", Dorian asked, though he realised too well that he must have looked rather otherwordly. Sadly, in the Imperium nobody handed out guides about how to act more Fereldan. Maybe he should have bought a dog, but those Fereldan monstrosities made Dorian's blood run cold.

"Told you, I'm a writer. I can tell things about people at a glance." And he probably liked sticking his nose in strangers' affairs, eavesdrop on conversations and write down eagerly everything he overheard. Mother had always warned about that type of espionage. All the well-educated civillians: wandering bards and actor troupes, scribes, accountants, writers and historians, nearly everybody blew the whistle, from time to time at least. For a Tevinter Soporatus, it was a chance to get a patron and practice a decent craft. "Whenever you meet them, always assume that their commissions are about more than art", Mother explained. And now, Dorian didn't even wish to know what else his companion noticed at first glance.

"Which Tethras do you know, exactly?", Varric asked.

"Thorold was he? A paramour of magister Maevaris Tilani."

"Well, isn't the world small! Poor cousin Thorold, now gone... wherever the revered, lawful dwarves go. So, you probably know old Mae?"

"Of course I know Maevaris. We used to run the social life in Quarinus."

"An Easterner", Varric nodded understandingly. "I've been to Quarinus once. A bit too hot and too magisterial. Stiff company on parties."

"That must have been after I left family home. Well, I've been to Kirkwall once", the mage said.

"Yeah?"

"A bit of a shithole."

"Yyyeeeah. That must have been after Blondie ran out of patience and blew half of the place up. Before that, it wasn't half bad", Varric's face clouded, and Dorian deduced that he might not have sounded too funny.

"You mean the mage who started the rebellion?"

"The rebellion was lying in wait for years. Anders just drew the last straw and gave the Knight-Commander a pretext to execute the Right of Annulment. Ever heard of the Right of Annulment? Here, templars don't rub mages' feet. They can annihilate an entire Circle. It's a last resort in hopeless cases. And Kirkwall...", Varric shook his head, fixing his eyes into the ground, and took a long pause. "Kirkwall might have been the worst of all. And I'd rather spare us both the details."

Tevinter mage's strong jaw tightened as he digested dwarf's words. He got used to treating the blistering Imperial attacks at the Southern Chantry and their Circles as... just that, slander fuelled by the great split-up. As he came to the South, he started realising that the truth about these events approximated the darkest version. Now, his remark about Kirkwall felt stupid and sorry.

"And I sound like an arse, like usually", he sighed. "I've heard... stories, but could never tell how much of it was exaggerated. Naturally, the Imperial Chantry used its opportunity to ignite hatred against the Orlesian creed. All they've gained so far are threats from Nevarra. Such is the neighbour love between our lands", Dorian sneered. "But I've never thought all these atrocities have actually happened."

"Yeah. In this case, gossipers' imagination can hardly outrival the truth. I'd be more worried if you _weren't_ in denial", Varric replied. "The whole thing beggars belief, and it only got worse when this began", he nodded at the Breach. "So... welcome to the Inquisition. We might all be dead within a month, but we have a tavern", the dwarf grinned with bitter irony and spread his arms open.

"Can't say I don't share your optimism", Dorian replied. "There's no way to survive the end of the world without a drop of liquor."

By the upper settlement gate next to them, a tall soldier was asking the guards for admission and complained that he hadn't been heard out by the authorities so far. There wouldn't be anything suspicious about him if it wasn't for a trace of Western Tevinter dialect in man's Trade Tongue. But, since the Inquisition had already scanned Dorian so thoroughly, they must have noticed that much about the messenger. Interesting how many Tevinter runaways he'd get to meet in the South. Maybe later Dorian would het a chance to introduce to the soldier at least, though meeting a Soporatus, even a thousand miles away from home, wasn't likely to result in a friendly embrace.

Since there was a tavern, it seemed the best place to head next. Much as Dorian told himself not to open up too much to the dwarf for the time being, he could ask some questions for a change. He found out that the Nevarran woman called Seeker, the Commander, the red-haired woman who interrogated Dorian, and a court ambassador of Antivian descent were in charge, advising the Herald of Andraste and teaching her to get by with crushing responsibility. It appeared that the elven apostate was the most knowledgable person when it came to the matters of the Breach and rifts... Or at least he had the most accurate guesses so far. From what Dorian understood, he was a "hedge mage", as the Southerners called a person never conscripted into a Circle. The elf said to be deriving his skill from dream journeys around the Fade. A _somniar_ probably? It would be fascinating to meet one alive, as Dorian hadn't heard about any _somniari_ since the legendary first worshippers of the Old Gods... Except maybe for a bunch of pointless breed-your-own-dreamer superstitions worshipped by some Altus families.

Dorian was trying to kill his mistrust for Varric Tethras with local ale which turned out truly dreadful, but it was more than likely than he'd have to get used to it. At least the stew was decent, and Dorian fancied a bite of properly seasoned ram. In the days to come, the Inquisition was supposed to become a bit more engaging. Any time soon, valuable aid from Orlais might have arrived, being the former First Enchantress to the Imperial Court of Orlais. Hearing one of these neverending chains of titles made Dorian truly homesick for a while. As Varric revealed, the Enchantress came from the Ostwick Circle and had non-trivial connections in the Free Marches.

"Forget Orlais, they're preoccupied with their own civil war. Look to the North", the dwarf said. "All the loyalist and moderate mages in the Marches can become our friends or foes depending how she moves a finger", the dwarf spoke with a blend of sarcasm and amazement, a thing Dorian could sincerely like about him. "And I don't need to tell you she can't have liked what Grand Enchanter Fiona did. The old division between mage fraternities blurred down after the Circles detached from the Chantry. And a group who wants the Circles back is gaining influence. If the Inquisition gets to pamper many splinter mage groups, it will be a laugh a minute."

"But didn't the mages fight for their right to self-governance?"

"In chaos like this, resourceful people will try to divide and conquer like in every conflict. Fiona's the one who stepped up for freedom of her people. Madame de Fer prefers _status quo_ and supervision of mages. And you don't mess with her", Varric shook his head with mysterious reverence. "I have a hard time picturing these two united."

Apart from the Enchantress, there was a small commoner organisation named after some Jenny. Probably another informant ring, as if the Inquisition never had enough of those. The apparently Tevinter soldier who kept hanging around the camp claimed to be from a mercenary band, offering help in the Storm Coast. At the time, the Inquisitor was searching for a Grey Warden contact in the Hinterlands. An interesting mixture, indeed, and maybe they'd manage to save the day, side by side.


	5. At home, away from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets a permission to visit the explosion site. The longest hours are these leading to Herald's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: slight horror/ gore

He got a bed, a piece of table surface and clothes for change. He didn't dare to ask if the locals knew the notion of cosmetics more sophisticated than herbal soap. Goodbye perfectly done, dense and shiny hair... At least until the next delegation to Val Royeaux. It was just as questionable whether Fereldans knew the invention of bathtub, as the stench of wet dog hair and cooked turnip followed every person he stumbled upon. Dorian was placed in a single-chamber wooden barrack near alchemist's workshop. Four beds, or rather: planks put together with straw mattresses, chests by each bed instead of dressers, a single desk and a small bookcase. One of his roommates left a booklet on their bedsheets, recognised as the latest issue of _The Randy Dowager Quarterly_ from the corner of Dorian's eye. Trashy romance novels were something universal, as it appeared. A noble pariah among commoners, this was Dorian's reality now – reminding Circle dormitories from his childhood a bit. At least the roof was tight enough not to leak.

Of all the personas with executive power, Sister Spymaster was the most eager to put some trust in Inquisition's latest addition from Tevinter. Dorian received her permission to approach the temple ruins with a party of scouts, though he was to remain a passive observer until the Herald and her apostate advisor returned. Judging from an undying smirk, it might have even given the red-haired woman some unhealthy satisfaction to see Commander shake his fair mane at this act of unforgivable indulgence (somehow, _he_ could keep his hair in good shape, so all the hope wasn't gone after all).

They gave Dorian a studded quarterstaff and advised to refrain from using magic, unless it were the last resort to saving the party. Sadly, nobody felt like familiarizing. The presence of Varric Tethras convinced Dorian that the dwarf was just one of Spymaster's agents in disguise chosen to bend Dorian's ear.

"It's your lucky day, Sparkler", the dwarf said. Sparkler. A _sparkler_. Was that outright mockery or just thinly veiled mockery? Was that what Dorian appeared to the dwarf at face value, a cheap decoration? A matter of honour to be resolved later, anyway.

"I'm taking you to the Temple ruins. Wouldn't have happened if Seeker was home, but... the Left Hand of the Divine enjoys looking when the mice play", Varric said. "There are many things you might find interesting. Including one thing which makes _my_ very own flesh crawl. Ever heard of red lyrium?"

"I doubt I have. Shouldn't raw lyrium have a blue or milky tint?", Dorian asked back. They crossed the first enormous gate on the single straight line, the bridge among rippling mountain tops.

"You'll see for yourself when we approach the ruins. In case we encountered any on the way, you must be warned: this thing is pure evil", the dwarf drawled with a frown. "It crawls into your mind as soon as you approach it. I don't even want to think what would happen if anybody tried to ingest it."

"What are you trying to say?", Dorian asked as they bypassed a crumbled bridge which would have normally led them to the main Frostback Mountain route. "A more powerful type of lyrium which can influence the mind... remotely?"

"Look, I'm a dwarf. I have nothing exciting to say about tripping on lyrium. But I can tell you one thing: _nobody's_ immune to that ore, not _even_ the dwarves. And now it appeared on the surface, in the centre of the explosion. One must admit, it's thought-provoking at least."

"But, how did you learn the properties of this red lyrium?"

"It grew practically under Kirkwall. And I have reasons to believe the damn thing contributed to some people's paranoia. Excuse me, but I don't feel like elaborating", irritation appeared in Varric's tone. Reminiscing Kirkwall in general seemed to have this effect on him.

"So, you suggest it's all interconnected? The Breach, the Venatori, and this red lyrium?", Dorian inquired. "Could the substance in concern be processed? Its power accessed by a mage?" Alexius might have aimed to utilise its alleged immense power, and that would have brought his magic one step closer to reality.

" _Don't_ go there, Sparkler. _Don't_ wonder if it's useful. Don't even _think_ about it", the dwarf grit his teeth. "Just stay far away, and hope none of it gets to your stupider cousins back home."

"I was simply hypothesizing", Dorian scoffed. "Wondering if my stupider cousins, including the Venatori, might be unintelligent enough to try. If they do, the Inquisition will have much more dirty work on its hands than expected."

"Everything starts as a hypothesis", Varric glanced at him. "And we all know a thing about the ingenuity of Tevinters."

"True. I can imagine how the world must be fed up with it. Luckily for you all, I'll insist on lending my brain to the right faction."

The path meandred into shallow stairs carved in the rock, revealing the debris of the battlefield: crumbled, darkened stone walls, corpses in armour and in robes, charred trees and patches of pavement covered in ugly, slippery pulp. The Veil stuttered and hiccoughed just like in Redcliffe, only the threat of another rift opening followed each Dorian's footstep. Muffled bangs above reminded him that the Breach still spat deadly jet black rocks out. The surroundings were more and more grim, and they hadn't even approached the epicentre.

"That's where the Herald caught up on us after she woke up", Varric said. "Thankfully, the direct path has been cleared out and we don't have to climb that ridiculous amount of ladders in the mountain approach."

From this spot, they had a clear view on their destination: a green funnel crawling miles up, piercing through ash grey clouds like a knife through butter. Slender, menacing spikes of Fade stone bursting from the ground overshadowed the landscape, making human construction barely recognisable.

"So, this is how it looks like when the Fade tries to enter our world? Not too much architectural deliberation, as far as I can see."

"Admit that the scenery's quite appropriate for a catastrophe", Varric replied.

"Only the pyrotechnical effects went out of hand? Feels almost like Imperial sport games. For some Archons, they were almost boring without accidental combustion", Dorian half-smiled. But this, again, might have been his natives seeking costly entertainment. Not exactly something to laugh about.

"Who would've thought you're such a playful nation", the dwarf sneered. "But jokes aside, we're almost in the temple."

"Do you mean that rock formation ahead?"

"That's what _covers_ the temple." It was refreshing to know there was still something _left_ of a temple underneath.

They entered a large open field intertwined with Fade rock. Dorian took a closer look at its vicious spindles iridescent with eerie green veins of energy. His head filled with low, annoying buzz bouncing off the stone floor and ruins of the wall. Varric pointed at stairs going down into something which used to be a corridor or a dungeon. Through a fragment of a damaged tunnel they entered a courtyard, judging from carved balustrades still separating them from the Breach. The view was awe-inspiring in any way possible. Flimsy ribbons of the damaged Veil wiggled in the entire area of sight, connecting into an enormous green column, now instilled in its frightful power. Even though allegedly stabilised, the way realms bent around it made Dorian's head spin. Unimaginable how the Herald survived an encounter with this place's magical charge... twice. There was no way a single mortal mage could produce such an effect without drowning a good-sized nation in blood. Could have something similar appeared when the ancient magisters knocked on Fade's door from _this_ side?

"Now, that's where it all began", Varric said. "If that big, shiny gap isn't creepy enough, look to the right. You might even want to approach it. But as soon as you get any intrusive thoughts, I recommend running the other way as fast as you can", Varric warned.

Whatever the dwarf meant, it sounded deadly serious. Indeed, it was there: from the jet black Fade rock wall, furiously red, pulsating veins sprung up, slithering towards a balustrade. Dorian sneaked up a couple steps forward. He promptly felt like being watched, and it definitely weren't Inquisition's scouts. The Veil resonated with shreds of past shouts and cries – _Bring forward_... _Forward_... Indeed, something on the inside drew him forward, but he stopped, remembering an old advice from Alexius: "A mage must be confident of himself, because his willpower alone should stand against the tricks of the Fade. But he mustn't come to believe the Fade can't affect him. Demons love to use that flaw. It's a difficult art: to treat spirits' words like temptation, yet not to succumb to fear of being deceived. Intelligent demons are those who give us the pictures we want to see, ideas to cherish. Raw affect, be it fear, anger, a surge of lust – can be dispelt with focus and mindful detachment. But sometimes one must cease to rationalize, listen to their gut reactions. This might be the only way to escape an elaborate illusion." Oh, Alexius... did meditation aid you when you clung to your obsession to cure Felix? When you heard your Elder One?

Demons being demons, this intrusion was something entirely new. Upon Dorian's Harrowing, the cupful of normal processed lyrium didn't give any sensation of a lingering dark, harmful presence. The red substance murmured incomprehensibly, but somehow the mage _could_ understand the gist of its message: somebody's fury, profound hatred, deep contempt for all that thrived. Whatever it was and whatever it had done, it promised to return, invade dreams, drown everything in blood. Then grow on, feeding on the corpses of the old world. No escape from these words but not words, going deep down, planting dismay. Dorian caught a glimpse of a vision: throbbing on the inside, like many blades stabbing from the depth outwards, the world in red. A knot tightening around his stomach told him it was about time to go.

"Seeing things already?", Varric's arm on his shoulder woke him up from a nightmarish slumber. Dorian swallowed, gulping loud, and his throat felt like a grater.

"Nothing to make me rethink my life, but I'm not keen on lingering here either", he replied with his voice slightly shaking.

"Yeah. You can't tell how exhausting it is until you experience it yourself. You should rest when we get back. Don't bother _thinking_ about it for now. It won't help with anything." The dwarf was rightfully concerned, and Dorian couldn't tell he wasn't grateful. If _this_ was present near Kirkwall... no surprise that the majority of tales from that place were nothing but dark horror. The entire way back, Dorian couldn't shake the creeps off his shoulders. Feelings induced by the hateful chant kept returning like a memory of a nightmare, still gnawing. Something was after him, behind the rock spindles, in body remains sagging from ruins. He felt despised and worthless, though he couldn't find a reason other than exposure to the strange, malicious force. Could the thing have drawn up whatever a heart couldn't stand?

Back in Haven, they checked in by Sister Nightingale, then Varric invited Dorian for a lazy game of Wicked Grace. People in the tavern rumoured about Herald's progress in stopping apostates and templars from slaughtering each other in the fields. Not much of a cheer, but he was back to the humane scale of evil. Dorian started thinking what immense force would the Inquisition require to close the Breach. Inviting Enchanter Fiona's rebels along could suffice, with mages deployed properly... Possibly, it required resources only a full-equipped Circle could provide. But first, Herald would have to help the mages break away from Alexius. The magister was a usurper, without a doubt. Dorian didn't believe Archon Radonis _or_ the majority of the Magisterium could give outright support to such a bunch of extremists. What was certain, nobody in the Imperium would shed tears if the Herald reclaimed the rebellion. Though maybe help wasn't the right word, as after the whole affair the mages would most likely be contained once more. Certainly, Enchanter Fiona's desperate move did not help the commoners trust mages' cause.

For now, life in the Inquisition looked more or less like that: all the fighting forces followerd the Herald to the Hinterlands. Everybody else killed time, waited to regroup, or devoted themselves to charity, prayers and other trivial activities. Outside the external gate, Commander trained swordsman recruits. A Revered Mother, who arrived from Jader to help refugees, and the little loud brother, who constantly quarreled with Commander, were giving Dorian that freezing leer, labelling him as an unwelcome heretic. So, Dorian waited patiently, mistreating his timeworn books about the most distant lands in Thedas and attempts to discover the world beyond. He almost forgot to finish his beer before it went warm, something not happening to him too often. Then, Varric had the courtesy to estimate the possibility of alliance with Redcliffe mages.

"Officially, we still don't have a leader, though Inquisition's rhetorics so far gently point at the Herald. The point is, she doesn't seem ready for tough strategic choices. So, I'm afraid that the choice will make itself when friends and advisors start fighting like cat and dog. Josephine, our ambassador, worries that another period of imprisonment will drive the rebels even angrier. Sister Nightingale likes the idea of free mages, just as she likes elves. Solas, our apostate know-it-all, doesn't like to be constrained in general, and it looks to me he gets much attention from the Herald. Then, there's the other scale. Seeker Pentaghast will support the cautious and pragmatic option, and that doesn't mean letting Fiona go without consequences. Commander Cullen used to be a templar. He was here when shit hit the Circle in Ferelden. Then, he was in Kirkwall. Not a great fan of _any_ sort of people running amok. I'm sure Enchanter Vivienne will support that team as soon as she arrives", the dwarf enumerated. "I'm curious. Considering your standing, wouldn't you like to gain ground? Play the Game a bit to balance the scales?", Varric asked, squinting his eyes. "It's not Orlesian court, of course, but always a place to start."

"I'm afraid you incorrectly mix my origin and my social standing. In the Imperium, I'm a dissident, a pariah. Here – a stranger. No matter how intelligent and charismatic, a disobedient individual in Tevinter is likely cast aside or silenced. I'm not a representative of the Imperium, and I didn't come here to be one. For now, stopping Alexius is my priority. That should get me anywhere I deserve to be", Dorian nodded to himself.

"Come on, Sparkler. It can't be _that_ bad. I'm sure you have one or two cards down your sleeve to do some important people a favour", the dwarf nagged. For what, to make a more captivating story? _No way_ the dwarf would find anything more out. Over Dorian's dead body.

"How come you always appear so knowledgable?", Dorian asked.

"I can listen and write things down", Varric winked. Did that mean he learned all of it just by strolling through the camp and eavesdropping? Amazing on one side, alarming on the other. Evidently, Dorian should watch his tongue around the dwarf.

"The whole business of muscling in on the line to lick right people's boots makes me sick, that's all", Dorian grunted. "If all I've heard about the Dalish is true, the Herald should be perfectly capable of balancing the scales herself. They have those wisemen-mages, yes? Protectors of their tradition?"

"You mean the Keepers? Yeah, it might be put like that."

"Then, she _can't_ believe that mages should be surveyed by an external force and kept in detention to appear acceptable. So I hope, at least."

New faces of refugees and craftsmen, human, elven and dwarven, wound through the tavern everyday. More than the drinking in itself, Dorian enjoyed pretending not to notice how the sweet barmaiden ogled him everytime she approached. Immune to ladies' physical charm he was, but never to their flattery. Sadly, more often than that he could hear "Tevinter", "magic rubbish" or "heretic" told with jeer behind his back, and at this point it would be suicidal to explain to Fereldans how distant he was from _both_ Chantries' superstitions. On the other hand, if the supposed Andraste's chosen worshipped an entirely different pantheon...

Whenever Varric didn't outplay Dorian, he outplayed scouts coming back to resupply. That was how Dorian found out, on the third day of his wake, that Herald was on her way back to Haven with a considerable group of soldiers. But before the Herald, another persona arrived. Dorian saw the entrance when Varric was telling stories of his adventures by the campfire. The inhabitants of Haven can't have had a doubt it was _someone_. A carriage, packed solid, brought a woman with a little procession of guards and servants. She jumped off the carriage before anybody made it there to aid her, and demanded to speak with the people in charge, squinting her eyes and wrinkling her perky nose at the condition of Inquisition's main camp. Dorian watched, captivated by her slender figure contrasting with ashen surroundings. Her thin, whitened leather coat with a layered collar folded like wyvern's comb wings. Her silver headdress complimented sharply lined, deep umber cheeks and the plum lining of her coat as she strolled through Haven, tall and unhurried. The kind who rarely needed to be introduced, as Mother would say. When the Enchantress disappeared in the Chantry building to speak with the Commander, the Spymaster and the Ambassador, guards darted around to unload her luggage.

Though the notion of "court mage" appeared redundant to a mind molded in Tevinter, he recognised the aura of importance too well. How would she cope with this austere plebeian surrondings, wearing all those Orlesian leathers and laces, if Dorian hardly could?

 


	6. Recognised and involved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald reappears, and Dorian takes part in the war council.

Cheers and loud commands intermixed with everyday hustle. Dorian could hear the main gate hinges scratching from his place. A ruddy blacksmith apprentice, one of his roommates, tied his apron in haste, mumbling that Harritt would rip his head off for getting late. Another companion was snoozing after a night watch, blissfully unaware of the commotion outside. The third one disappeared everyday at sunrise to tend to the bronto pen. Dorian sat outside, kicking his heels, with a book still spread open on his knee, even though it had already been read through three times.

Anticipating the imminent end of boredom, he took a stroll to the lower camp. The surroundings of Lake Calenhad had their soothing charm, despite the lack of good roads and numbing cold at nightfall. The light bickered tenderly through blueish spruce crowns. By the switchback road bypassing the little emerald lake, he sat a rock decorated with ancient depictions of local wildlife, hoping to enjoy his second breakfasts. The amiable warmth of sunlight touched his back. Times like this, he could just lie down on the nearest boulder and warm himself like a lizard for hours.

Songs and laughter echoed across the basin. The sound in high mountains could refract in quite unexpected directions. But this time, there was no mistake: marching figures appeared long way up, on the majestic mountain bridge. Steel pauldrons and helmets bickered as Dorian looked out to any familiar figures with his arms crossed on his chest. The returning three or four dozen people plodded along, loosening their marching array. Soon, they emerged on the corner of the path near the smithy. In the lead, Dorian saw the Herald, her old companions, and a knight in an insipid, bluish quilted coat. Soldiers ran up to their tents and inside the settlement. Some of them jumped out of their armours immediately to splash around in the lake, too tired and yearning to care about privacy. Speaking of which, observing the locals, the noble from Tevinter was surprised how many activities people in Haven could share in their difficult circumstances without turning a hair. Perhaps it was how commoneres lived in every corner of the world, devoid of what Dorian had always considered standards of domesticity? Well, there were also the slums of Minrathous... But there was no need to recall those.

The Herald noticed Dorian's presence and poked her companions' shoulders, bringing their attention to the exotic sight of Tevinter's upright posture.

"You've finally returned! I was about to start counting the livestock", he called out cheerfully to Herald's delegation. Wiry Nevarran's black brows snapped together, foretelling fury.

"What is he doing here? Running all free, making himself at home?", she shouted, pointing at Dorian. "Who let the Tevinter in?", she walked up to the nearest minor guard by the gate, trying to hide his face from her thunderbolt presence.

"I'd like to know that too", the Herald said.

"I-I swear he was taken to Commander Cullen...", the guard explained with a shaking voice. The swordswoman let go of his coat and charged into the settlement.

"I've mentioned I wanted to help, haven't I? Sadly, you weren't home when I arrived, so your good people took me in for the time being. Do not worry, I've been searched and all that fuss", Dorian said.

"It's not all about you. You could've been followed from Redcliffe", the elven hero replied.

"You took him _where_?!", he heard the Nevarran still shouting behind the gates. "It had better _not_ have been your own initiative, dwarf!" Dorian could almost see the smoke coming from underneath Varric's boots.

"Never a dull moment with this maiden around, eh?", Dorian muttered.

"Let's hope that your leaders are more coordinated on a daily basis", Herald's last companion said. It was a fatherlike knight, heavily soiled with blood and mud, with a thick black beard desperately demanding attention. Only now did Dorian notice that man's tarnished breastplate carried a gryphon emblem, the mark of Grey Wardens. "You know what they say, too many cooks spoil the broth." He carried the suffocating stench of local cheese.

"I must speak to Leliana, right now! I don't care that she's -", the Nevarran kept on pestering the guards, her voice resounding until she disappeared deep within the main camp. Dorian slid off the boulder and swept the dust from his hands.

"Another topic for today's war council", the Herald sighed, turning to Dorian. "Since you're here, we may need you too in a while. But first I need to save Varric from Cassandra's wrath and freshen up after the trip", she said.

"You're learning quickly", the bald apostate chirped at her.

"Learning what?"

"To be everyone's hero." The Herald shook her head and gazed at the other elf with ill-concealed fascination. "Await a messenger", she told Dorian before disappearing behind the fences with her attendants. The Tevinter decided to follow before he'd find the pond genre scene too captivating.

The dwarf was nowhere to be found, hiding his arse from the supervisors. Dorian returned to the bench in front of his barrack to embrace a little more sunlight before he'd have to report for duty. As it turned out, the elven apostate lived across from Dorian's place, and wasn't very fond of talking about weather. Dorian needed to get his hands busy very soon, because the abandoned _Randy Dowager_ was the only readable thing left within arm's reach. One thing he could tell, Orlesian ladies had exceptionally tacky taste even when it came to befuddling readings. Halfway through the polished armour novella section, a messenger from the Herald arrived.

"Lord Pavus of Tevinter? Lady Herald's calling to the war room", the runner saluted and walked into the alchemist's laboratory next door, concealing a dirty smile. _The Randy Dowager_ glided into a muddy puddle between the buildings, never to bother unsuspecting minds again. At last some attention! Dorian checked his hair and mustache, then bounced through the camp into the Chantry, attracting attention of the clergy dressed in red and white. As the squeaky door at the end of the main Chantry hall opened, he faced the full gathering of Herald's advisors.

"I've been called, yes? The mysterious, mesmerizing newcomer from Tevinter. That's me", he said, bowing his head to the tiny assembly, dressed in the aura of his natural diplomatic charm.

"Yes...", the Herald hesitated. "I've heard you found our camp before Sister Leliana's people started looking for you all over the Hinterlands." The Nevarran leered at the red-haired woman with reproach.

"Since I hit it off with your friends after you first confronted Alexius, it seemed like a natural consequence. I hope the feeling turns out mutual."

"I believe an introduction is in place", a young woman in glittering silk clothing interrupted. A native Antivan, judging from a strong accent, aquline demeanor, and a warm brown complexion common in the Northlands. "Josephine Montyliet, currently the chief diplomat of the Inquisition", she bobbed with grace. "You already met the Herald of Andraste, lady Dirtharas of Clan Lavellan, and our seneschal, sister Leliana. Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast supervises the Inquisition according to the late Divine Justinia's directives. Commander Cullen Rutherford leads our military forces", the lady diplomat carried on. "And this is Lord Dorian Pavus from Quarinus, an enchanter to the Imperial Circles and a former apprentice of Magister Gereon Alexius." It was the second time Dorian got to see Commander Cullen in the light, with messy blonde hair and ruffled dyed fur by his armour. He was pale, sickly even, with dark circles deep under his eyes and evident stiffness in his movements. The Herald wore a humble Inquisition uniform, the same as recruits and average scouts. In the future, she could invest in something more... representational.

"Luckily, the whole lordship is my Father's business", Dorian said. "I'd like to be recognised as a mage of an uncommon talent, and one of the rare advocates of radical reforms in my homeland", he bowed slightly. The narrow-eyed Pentaghast spoke back:

"You claimed to know magister Alexius's ways. You offered to cooperate of your own accord. Let us hope you prove your intentions sincere. We've called you to assist while we arrange the next step towards closing the Breach."

"Alexius almost wrote a canticle dedicated to the Herald, inviting her to the Redcliffe Castle", Cullen leant against the large map of Ferelden spread on the table. "Even a child would sense a trap. It's crucial that we reclaim the castle before the magister uses the rebelled mages for his own ends. We can't launch an open assault, though. We would send our men to death."

"Still no hearing from the Arl of Redcliffe?", the Herald asked.

"Unfortunately, no. We have also sent a word to the Crown, asking about their position. We must hope that King Allistair will turn his eyes to Redcliffe before we're pressured to act", lady Montyliet replied. "Without their response, our hands are tied. An 'Orlesian' Inquisition's army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war."

"Someone out there could admit to us, for a change", the Herald said.

"So, we're done with the armed intervention, unless the King deploys his own men on Arl's request", Commander sighed.

"And I doubt the Arl will want our assistance once the Fereldan army lays siege to his castle", the ambassador said.

"Wait. I've got an idea", Sister Leliana joined in with a corner of her mouth slightly lifted. "There is a secret passage into the castle. An escape route for the family. It's too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through."

"Too risky. Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the magister", Commander replied.

"That's why we need a distraction. Perhaps the envoy Alexius wants so badly?", Sister Nightingale suggested.

"While they're focused on Lavellan, we break the magister's defences", Commander's forehead furrowed. "It could work, but it's a huge risk."

"Fortunately, you'll have help", Dorian spoke up. "If Alexius set up magical defences, and he most likely did, your scouts won't go through without arcane knowledge. I don't suspect he invented anything far beyond the Imperial standards of martial spellcrafting, but it could be challenging to you Southerners. That is where the good Tevinter comes in", he smiled, looking at rather unimpressed faces around him. "If you're after Alexius, I'm coming along."

"What about blood magic?", the Pentaghast asked. "Even templars are helpless in the face of blood magic. If the magister used it to secure himself, we can't allow you to use the same means to disperse his spells. That would put us at an even greater risk."

"I can't help but agree", Dorian nodded. "If Alexius used blood magic to ward the castle, then we might as well try smashing the walls with our own heads. Unlike many of my natives, I don't soil my clothes _that_ way", he said, looking into the suspicious pair of eyes. Sadly, his confession didn't meet with applause.

"At this rate, it shouldn't hurt to send you with the scout group", the spymaster nodded, attracting Pentaghast's angry glare once more.

"We'd better not get our fingers burned", Rutherford said. "Herald, the plan puts you in most danger. We can't, in good conscience, order you to do this. We can still go after the templars if you'd rather not play the bait. It's up to you", he adressed the elf. Go after the templars, and waste the opportunity to see Dorian's supreme abilities? Perish the thought!

"I want to negotiate with the mages", the Herald replied. "Let's take our time to prepare. Maybe we will hear from Denerim in a few days. In the meantime, I could make a short trip to the Storm Coast. Blackwall wants to investigate Wardens' disappearance. I could also get in touch with the leader of that mercenary band."

"So, we're inviting that Qunari after all? Soon, we'll have gathered all the nationalities and political options", Commander replied, chuckling a little. "But let it be. We can't reject any help we're offered. How's that proposition sound?" All the remaining women approved. At the sound of the word dreaded in Tevinter, Dorian shrugged unwittingly. But, a "Qunari" might have meant anything, right? This part of the world would mostly have the Tal-Vashoth, yes? The ones liberated from the slavish ideology?

"Alright then", Commander said, straightening his back wearily. "Let's assume the expedition takes two weeks. That should be enough time for a dozen people on horseback. By then, I want a fully prepared infiltration group to report for duty."

Being ordered about like an errand boy wasn't exactly Dorian's thing. Still, excitement stirred in his stomach. His moment of justice was getting nearer: an opportunity to tell Alexius off for his recklesness, perhaps even to convince his old master to forsake precarious cultist devotion. An epic showdown with an unsuspected moral: showing the young, brash apprentice as the one who found himself on the right path. Tethras should have envied... But, foolish jokes aside, Maker knew how Alexius could react to the sight of Dorian's face after the last words they had shared years prior. One thing for certain, it wouldn't be pleasant. Perhaps Alexius would order to kill him on sight as a traitor of the Imperium, how could Dorian know.

As the other participants dispersed, the spymaster nodded at him to have a word. He received plans of the old Redcliffe settlement, including the hidden passage in concern. Sister Nightingale asked him to consider where and how Alexius could have secured himself with magic. When he left the cramped, ascetic room with a handful of parchments, the Herald asked him over in the main Chantry hall.

"I didn't expect you to contact us so soon", she said, fixing her large green-brownish eyes on him. "Did the Hinterlands treat you rough? Have you stumbled upon any rebels battling?" After all Dorian's adventures so far, a voice of concern? That was something new.

"No trouble worth your attention. If I had had any, I'd have probably been forced to leave a trace of dead bodies behind me. It's not so hard to lose your temper when everyone around wants to stab you with something sharp... But, I haven't come here to sound threatening", he said, feeling Herald drill him through with a scrutinizing glance. "Right on the contrary. As long as I'm here, I'll be honoured to help", he nodded. What was important, the conversation hadn't turned into a cataclysm yet. "Ssso... I take it you're Dalish? Is that the correct word here?" And there was Dorian, as always, sounding horrible whenever he tried walking on eggshells.

"It's the correct word everywhere", she replied. That went... smoother than expected.

"We... don't have Dalish clans coming northward... for obvious reasons. So I've never met one of your people before. Although, I've learned about them. A little. I hope this won't be an issue between us... I'm here to help, after all. So, there's no need for us to dredge the past, is there?"

"No", she replied a bit sharply.

"That's... relieving. Especially that I considered staying for longer."

"You mean, staying after we've dealt with Alexius and the Venatori? We'll need people with an attitude. If you're as dedicated as you declare, I won't mind."

"That's what most of us Tevinters are, once you scrape through all that self-righteousness and petty pride. Sadly, I've no friends with me to prove it. But, you aren't standing here to talk about _me_ , are you? Though I'd obviously understand if you were." She gave Dorian _that_ look again, as if he had just walked into the morning prayers without trousers. "Look, I've had the courtesy of seeing it, that Breach. I won't rest until I find out how it happened, and how to prevent it from happening again."

"Good luck with that. No sarcasm. We will really need much luck", the elf replied before walking away.

He breathed all the tension out as if he had just passed an exam in the Circle of Minrathous. Fortunately, there was hope of breaking the ice.

 


	7. The castle of many doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two following chapters are basically Castle Redcliffe. This part conveys the infiltration in Herald's and Dorian's present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: claustrophobia; violent, degrading language

A wake-up call at dawn was one kind of cruelty, but that was exactly when Sister Leliana called everybody for the briefing. She insisted to lead the operation herself which appeared rather serious business. A thin shroud of morning fog was descending onto the frozen grass, weaving tiny droplets onto gossamer in the bushes. Druffalo breeders from local horsemaster's estate performed their first daily duties. All of it chosen for a world-threatening scenario. Dorian drank hot barley coffee, still a bit distracted after a restless night. Sleeping bags and straw mattresses left him more sore than he wished to admit. His mind leapt between adventure rush and a wish to get burried underneath a thick duvet quilt. He had been sheltered from war so far, save a few small Qunari raids on Quarinus, reminders of the _status quo_ more than acts of real invasion. Altus heirs were too precious to go to war.

Before the final send-off, auxiliary troops went froward to secure their path to Old Redcliffe.

"That's all we can do. Apart from waiting for your return, of course. Good luck", a dwarven lady with heavily freckled, ruddy cheeks saluted them in a slightly trembling voice. Harding, the name was. Her squad didn't take part in attacks. They explored, surveyed the area for resources, marked locations which would interest the bigger fish. Can't have been easy either, preparing others for the danger but seldom learning it first hand. Dorian sent her a reassuring smile, making final adjustments to the bundle of clasps and buckles on his precious armour.

All the responsibility on the shoulders of two little scout groups, including one mage from Tevinter. For the best or for the worst. The troops took a path along a creek falling straight into the Lake Calenhad. They passed an enormous complex of caverns by, a sculpture of perfect geometry of sharp blocks and chipped onyx geodes. A gentle approach, marked in stone by Inquisition agents, turned to the north-east. The creek cascaded down as the people climbed onto the red clayish hills, the very same which granted the village its name. Debris and gravel crunched under their boots. They could see the outline of cobblestones and bricks, covered with moss or displaced to inevitably slide into the lake in the end. One glimpse downwards ruins of the old settlement awaited, now mostly taken by the forest: charred shacks consumed by ivy, patches of elfroot and embrium springing among ordinary weeds.

"All rangers to their positions. Stay alert and look out for a sign from the Herald. When it comes in, we must move out immediately", Sister Leliana commanded. The worst part of their mission: idle waiting. The place was now at rest, but the Veil remembered the darkspawn and death.

Staying hidden between the spruces and abundant bushes, the scouts could turn their eyes towards the new Redcliffe just a stone's throw away, behind a stole wall still standing, an iron gate covered in rust and vine and a bridge long collapsed into the river. Their objective was a windmill built on the very top of the hill, facing the castle standing on a cliff island on Lake Calenhad. If one strained their eyes, they could see the Circle Tower and the northern shore.

"They should be reaching the target point by now. I hope the Herald won't let the Venatori isolate her", Leliana sighed. "One mistake and we're history. I haven't done _anything_ like that for quite long."

"She's a hunter, isn't she?", a hooded agent with a few loose strands of wheat blonde hair replied. "She knows what it would mean."

"Until we dismantle Alexius's defences, the Herald will be helpless. We can't reach out for her any time sooner. Stealth is our top priority."

"And the Venatori?"

"Pacify them by _any_ means necessary", Leliana lowered her voice with gloom. Which probably meant a lot of people to kill. Grim silence ensuing confirmed it – not a songbird, not even a breeze in the trees.

"Is it true that the King was seen on the road by the Drakon River?"

"The ravens haven't brought anything before we set off but we sent our messengers to the crossroads near the Lothering camp."

Something rippled in the bushes. A runner ran up to Leliana and Charter, communicating in muffled but agitated voice that the Herald passed the appointed location. Sister Leliana ordered to move out. With her at the lead and Charter at the end, one by one, the people entered the clustered interior of the windmill and squeezed themselves through a trapdoor, passing a stack of old barrels and empty sacks. The ladder descended into a chamber paved with brownish cobblestone, guiding into a seemingly endless tunnel lit up every few inches. The surroundings didn't change too much for next mile or so. The tunnel sloped down, then clamped, forcing them to bend down, then stretched again. The only indiactor of their position was the air, gradually altering from stiffling stellar stench into a damp draught. Finally, they reached another chamber with a ladder. Dorian caught up to Leliana who looked at him with a mysterious smile.

"As soon as we leave the tunnel, we'll be in the castle dungeon. This part should be off limits. It was available only to the Guerrin family", she whispered.

"If it's off limits, how do we get in? If it's a family passage, it requires some sort of a key, a family trinket", Dorian replied.

"As an honoured veteran of the Fifth Blight, I had access to many keys in my time." She went forward through the trapdoor, Dorian following right behind. She pulled a garnet signet out of her pocket and fit it into a small cavity in the wall. A row of stone slabs murmured and moved aside, revealing another corridor whose exit glistened with frost blue, fanning wave patterns.

"Any magical traps?", Leliana asked. Dorian advanced carefully, weaving a simple spell to reveal any fluxes of energy. As the spell started working, his fingers tingled. He would have heard any runes and magical mines just like he could hear ruptures in the Veil. If he focused hard enough, he could have listened to a spider in the corner and mice behind the wall. But the wall of light ahead was the loudest.

"Nothing before the barrier, but its frequency obscures the other side. We must be careful from now on", he reported, allowing the troops to move on.

"There might be guards", Leliana said from behind his back.

"I'll deal with them, don't you worry."

Dorian closed his eyes and focused to attune to the energy field. A typical barrier was bound to open when given a proper key from within mage's personal aura. The more sophisticated the bareer, the smaller deviation from creator's personal imprint was allowed. This barrier's creator was taught by Alexius. Dorian pulled it down like a worn-out sheet.

Only then did they take a glimpse at another small dungeon hall, tidy, without spiderwebs, suspiciosuly empty. Sister Leliana ordered to stop and glanced at the next room from behind the door frame.

"Watch out", the spymaster whispered. "It's a good spot for an ambush."

"Could we lure the Venatori out if I set a simple trap?" There were no objections.

Dorian projected an ice rune image onto the floor. A gentle breeze from the Fade nuzzled his shoulders and centred within a glittering sigil. He looked at Leliana's people sneaking up on convenient positions. Without further hesitation, he made a sharp, ripping move, pulling all the cell door open. The clash of steel bars brought voices out on the other side, and soon alarmed Venatori guards entered with their short swords drawn. Seeing helmets with ridiculous pointed visors and white robes with the Imperial dragon emblem embroidered thereupon, Dorian felt his hands itching with a need to reduce the amount of fanaticism in the world. Just as expected, guards' legs got frozen to the ground, turning them into training dummies. Inquisition scouts searched and stacked the bodies into a dungeon cell while Leliana revised their strategy for the last time.

"This is where we split up. Magister's security forces should be focused on Herald's arrival, leaving the throne room area the most dangerous. We should aim to use any breaches in security to our advantage. Charter, your squad will take a different path, clear the floor out and conceal our presence. Search the southern wing and immobilize every soldier you see. The enchanters should be working in the upper floor with rebel mages. We don't go there until Alexius has been seized. If you spot their mage anyway, shoot to kill. We'll go ahead to take the armoury over and proceed in camouflage to replace the guard shift with our people before Herald's arrival. To avoid tragic mistakes, wait for the password... or for the attack."

Charter's group turned left, towards a long suite of corridors. The others marched ahead, securing the next room, and let Leliana open the armoury door on the right. For a while, people walked in and out to change their colours. Half a dozen Leliana's people transformed into Tevinter fanatics.

Their next step involved guard quarters with one crucial element: daily orders and the shift schedule. A long corridor split in two, and they took the left path, more abundant in historical tapestries and canine ornaments. Simply walking into the guard post and killing everybody could compromise the infiltrators at once, so Sister Leliana decided to send the only Tevinter onboard for recoinassance.

" _Vishante kaffas_. I'm not exactly in a mood for a chit-chat with _any_ of them."

"Just go in there, act Tevinter, take a look around and block the other way out. You'll be covered." Dorian swallowed loudly, longing for the taste of wine, closed the visor and marched on, twitching slightly. If he made out of this alive, that would definitely be an occasion to get dead drunk. Three people inside. A tawny, owl-like guard played solitaire by the table while two others chatted by a door, judging from the smell – a door leading to a latrine.

" _Vade, frater,_ take that piece of tin off and play with me", the Venatori called.

"I'd rather not. The mold on these walls gives me a terrible rash, you know. _Canis faex et faste_ , if you ask me", Dorian replied. The owl man put the card deck away, fixing his large amber eyes on the infiltrator, ready to pounce.

" _Satis_! What kind of joke is this? Identify yourself, soldier!", he called out.

"Leave him alone", another guard, pale and ash-haired, joined in. "Don't you recognise? It's that new pansy from Quarinus", the man scoffed. On second thoughts, strangulation was absolutely in place.

"You can have pansies above you pretty soon", Dorian hissed, blocking the door on the other side of the room with a wall of energy bolts.

"Trespassing! A hostile mage!", the men cried out. Dorian wrapped himself in a barrier, spreading it wide enough to invite Inquisition scouts to both his sides. The Venatori were dealt with swiftly, another checkpoint taken. Scouts scoured through the drawers while Leliana searched a board on the wall.

"Good, we have bought some time. Meanwhile...", she thought out loud, leafing through parchments. "Yes, that's it. By noon, preparations with the highest level alert. Ten guards to the throne room. Six enchanters will stand right by magister's side. This will be harder to tackle. Here's the daily schedule with names marked..."

"They'll probably have to check in and sign... something. Our military's all about the paperwork. If we manage to take at least one of these mages down, you could plant me there as a tiny surprise", Dorian said, glimpsing at the pages from the corner of his eye. "May I take a look at this list? I was wondering if I should prepare myself for any... joyful reunions." Leliana turned away, immersed in deep thought. Dorian folded the sheet and tucked it in behind his cloth belt.

"What's _one_ thing you can do but an average Alexius's mage cannot?", the spymaster asked him.

" _Just_ one?"

"Pick your favourite."

"You mean reviving these corpses and quickening their decay to use its natural products as explosives?", he replied with an inappropriately charming smile.

"Maybe _not_ that. I've seen enough walking dead in this castle."

"I can repeat the trick with elemental magic, then. If they carry spellbooks with advanced incantations, I can burn the books first. Nobody's focused on attack when they sizzle."

"Nice line of reasoning", sister Leliana chirped.

"There's one more thing: I'd be grateful to salvage one of these spellbooks. Preferably with a living enchanter attached. I might need some diagrams."

"Alright. I leave the mages to your discretion."

The scouts withdrew into the previous room and waited. To say that Dorian was able to take the majority of Alexius's sycophants down was an understatement. Staying away from Tevinters' favourite shortcut to dream fulfillment, he had to excel in other techniques. As a child, he'd learn spells far more advanced than he was expected just by himself. He held his real abilities up his sleeve to show them off at a moment he found convenient, to be feared by his peers and respected by his tutors. To imitate Father's aura he hadn't yet understood. All he had ever worked out with this method was expulsion from places and a reputation of fierceness and unpredictability. But that was a different time and a different Dorian. Sometimes he wondered how far he would have advanced in the army, had Father tempered his avarice and sent his only scion away to learn some discipline as an officer. He always assumed he'd either have died within the first week of an assault or made the Alam district on Seheron Tevinter again.

Steel boots clinked, figures in spiky light armour and puffy black trousers appeared in the doorway. An armour more similar with the one Alexius wore. Dorian breathed deeply behind the door as the guard quarters were filled up again. On Leliana's signal, they unleashed the chaos once more: door blocked by a shocking trap, a chain of energy missiles making hostile bodies tense themselves and fall down to their knees. Scouts jumped out from behind beds and put the Venatori out of their misery, one by one.

"Seize at least one enchanter alive!", Leliana ordered. Far ahead, by the blocked door, a hooded mage lifted his enormous book in the air and started weaving an ash-like cloud of entropic smoke. Dorian did as he had promised: a little sigil floating by the spellbook, one snap of his fingers, and Venatori spellcaster's tool of trade exploded forcefully enough to stun its user without doing him much harm. Dorian bounced ahead to pick the mage up and interrogare him. He pulled the pointed, white hood off. Enchanter's face looked too familiar: dark skin, black eyes, a narrow, hooked nose of an ancient Neromenian descentant, now coloured up by a trace of blood. A fearful glimmer in man's eye confirmed that he had recognised as well.

"Hello, Valerius", Dorian said roughly. The sight of a familiar face stirred helpless anger, thought he could have seen much worse. A school friend or ex-lover. So many people didn't reply to his letters. Valerius had always been good at manipulating life forces and casting debilitating spells. They topped entropy classes in Perivantium, head to head. Good that the man was immobilized quickly. Now, Dorian needed to swallow the sentiment and transform Valerius into a nameless Venator.

He dragged the man, still tense and rigid, to the nearest chair and sat him down using _maybe_ a bit more force than necessary. "Of all the people I know from the Circles, I had to find _you_ there. You were one of the most sensible. What in the Maker's name happened to change it?"

"I could ask _you_ the same question, Pavus. How could you miss what's been brewing? Were you too drunk to notice?", the man barked back. So, now Dorian was degraded so low they referred to him just by his surname? "The ox dropped doubled invasion forces by the Eyes of Nocen. Doubled! Someone must stop this pestilence instead of running away like -"

Dorian thumped the table with his fist. He had heard many insults to his self-conduct and honour, but this wasn't the time to listen with his head down. Valerius quivered, supposedly not expecting any reaction.

"Apparently, even with my face soaked I had more brains than some of you. Minds consumed by paranoia, hearts devoured by ill pride... Is this how we want to present ourselves to the world? As desperates with a thinly veiled sense of inferiority?", Dorian called out.

"At least Alexius took action. The others are just boastful cowards or drunken losers."

"So, the refusal to dance to your tune is now called cowardice?", Dorian towered above the man. All he'd get to see were his friends turning into blinded dogs, feeling entitled to judge his valor because they were many and he roamed alone. "But enough with this patriotic talk. The throne room, Valerius. How is it secured? Through topological augmentation centred on a selected spot? A one-sided barrier trigger?"

"As if I meant to tell you."

"Not much of a loss. We've still got your spellbooks, I'll figure the charts out in no time. I simply wanted to give you one last chance to do some good."

"Stuff yourself, braggard. What are you now, Herald of Andraste's pet? A walking educational pamphlet? You want to decide who's righteous and who's to repent? So full of shit, like your entire family..."

Family insults had always been in vogue among the Altus, especially with politics involved. Nevertheless, Dorian didn't mind applying a little justice.

"Speaking of which, you've just helped me picture you bathing in a privy. An adequate place, considering your allegiance. Would you agree, dear Sister?", Dorian asked, checking his hand for wood splinters. He might have just started a list of not-exactly-friends. "Oh, and one last thing: I might need your armour." Leliana nodded and stepped back. The sight of the supremacist stripped down and shut away was far too pleasant.

"I just hope mine won't accidentally disappear. It cost me a fortune", Dorian muttered, unbuckling his masterpiece of openwork leather coverture, pants lined with finest velvet and light steel greaves. The armour went to the stack of remaining Inquisition garments, to remain deep in one of the dressers. Soon, he felt the eerie heaviness of a chainmail covered with an Imperial surcoat and a cloth belt. Then, there were the bouffant trousers and a ridiculous spiked helmet able to challenge even Dorian's fondness of warmth and all the things clingy. He approached the body of another enchanter and pulled a heavy tome from underneath. In just a moment, he found the right sigil and the energetic code to intercept any traps in the throne room.

"You look too convincing in disguise", Leliana said. Dorian could tell her the same.

"There's a reason it _hides_ the face", he scoffed back. If the ancestors could see him like this... Dorian wasn't sure whether they would despair or rejoice.

He heard a rumour in the next chamber and soon saw a small group of the Venatori approaching. Except that those weren't bouncing with pride, they weren't making themselves at home as native Imperials would.

"Andraste guide me", Dorian heard a familiar sharp feminine voice calling from the entrance. The leading figure cautiously held their hand on the handle of a sheathed sword. It was their password, simple and clever. Normal people in the Imperium didn't give a darn about Andraste, let alone those deeply concerned with anything elder.

"Come with a blessing", Leliana replied. The faux Venatori entered and both women opened their visors. "Charter... Good to see you in one piece."

"The steward sent for the magister. The main floor should be secure now, but we must hurry."

"Good. Dorian and I will take positions closest to the magister. Don't touch the mages in the throne room until we deconspire."

They marched quickly through the final row of corridors, into a spacious carpeted hall with curious sculptures of dogs leaping down from the walls. In the distance, behind a tall arched doorway, Dorian saw someone looking like Felix. Leliana ordered her people to sneak up behind massive stone columns and nodded at Dorian. They turned right, to the vestibule and observed the main castle entrance. All they had to do now was stand and pretend. A fair-haired steward with sand complexion and a fleshy Fereldan nose paced back and forth. When the remaining Venatori mages arrived to join them in the row, they became sheep among the wolves.

The castle door cracked and spread open with a difficulty, revealing Herald's representation. Seeker Pentaghast smirked as if she knew. The steward persuaded that the Herald went in alone, unarmed. Luckily, she refused. The escorted party marched on into the main hall. As the Herald passed them by, Leliana nodded at Dorian and rushed to follow right behind. If there were traps, he sensed nothing. There was nothing more he could do magic-wise.

Alexius slouched on the throne with his lips puckered in forced disgust. Oh, how they _all_ looked the same when given a position of power. The steward announced the guests to Alexius.

"My friend! It's so good to see you again!", Alexius stood up, chirping in a voice as fake as his pleasantries. "And... your associates, of course. I'm sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties." The way he glared at the Enchantress of Orlais revealed that he didn't exactly expect the Herald to have company. One more person in the room found out that Alexius made a grave mistake, not having guarded himself against magic. Especially that Enchanter Fiona stepped in.

"Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?"

"Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives."

"I'm sure many people did, though I'm _not_ sure if this trust is sensible", the Herald said.

"Still, you have arrived", Alexius drawled and returned to the throne. "The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?"

"You wanted me? You've got me. I was hoping to find out to what I owe the attention of your Venatori."

"And where could you have heard that name?", Alexius squinted his eyes, examining the elf.

"She knows everything, Father", Felix interrupted from behind magister's back. His father's face changed from a smug magisterial expression into a grimace of sheer panic. "I told her", Felix gazed at his father with the pain of inner conflict written all over his face.

"Felix, what have you done?", Alexius scolded as if his heir had just broken a priceless piece of alchemical apparatus.

"You answer me, Alexius. Why did you want me here?", the Herald asked. The magister rose again, careful not to step down from his pedestal, the stone platform under the Arl's throne.

"Do you know what you are? You walk into my stronghold with a stolen mark, a gift you don't even understand, and think you're in control? You're nothing but a mistake." _His_ stronghold? Goodness, how quickly the Tevinter nobility got used to any extent of luxury. Shame Alexius hadn't ordered to redecorate, _that_ would have been a real token of control.

"Enlighten me then. Tell me what the mark on my hand is for."

"It belongs to your betters. You wouldn't even begin to understand its purpose." Said a man who used to be a teacher. A bearer of understanding. Replacing his greatest gift with circular dogmatic nonsense. If there was something Dorian was doing there, apart from pretending his own foe, screaming on the inside sounded relevant.

"Father, listen to yourself. Do you know what you sound like?", Felix persuaded, approaching to grab Alexius's shoulder. Whether he knew or not, Felix deserved support. Dorian couldn't hold himself back.

"He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliché everyone expects us to be", he stepped aside, whipped the heavy helmet off and cast it onto the ground, looking the magister in the face.

"Dorian...", Alexius the Elder drawled. Didn't expect that, did he? He never found out Dorian would come back. He was too bothered disappearing with his entire household without a trace. "I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down", Alexius carried on. He sounded just like Father checking Dorian's annual school reports, as if he couldn't exactly decide what he had expected. Could it still have bothered him, after all this time – his delusions being turned down by a single apprentice? "The Elder One has power you would not believe. He would raise the Imperium from its own ashes."

"And turning time is supposed to be the way? Or was it killing the Divine?", the Herald asked sharply. Alexius continued, ignoring her:

"Soon he will become a god. He will make the world bow to the mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric ocean -" ...to the Frozen Seas, like the old Imperium thousands of years ago, _et cetera, et cetera_. A brainwashed music box with nothing left of old Master Alexius. One thing Dorian could not understand: how could his former mentor's brilliant mind transform into this abomination? He used to be so progressive. Proposed to educate the Soporati, to patent enchanted devices usable for everyone, reform the army and foreign policy. What made him believe that progress was no different than running in circles?

"You can't involve my people in this!", Enchanter Fiona spoke up. Enchanter Vivienne gave her a waspish leer, as a reminder that it was a bit too late to protest.

"Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen. Why would _you_ support this?", Dorian cried out. The same question asked twice on that day: why would _they_ have surrendered, the people who seemed perfectly sane? Alexius dropped his head and turned away. Dorian and Felix exchanged understanding glances.

"Stop it, Father. Give up the Venatori. Let the Southern mages fight the Breach and let's go home", Felix stepped out with confidence Dorian hadn't seen in him for long.

"No", Alexius turned to his son. "It's the only way, Felix. He can _save_ you."

" _Save_ me?!", Felix snorted out.

"There is a way. The Elder One promised... If I undo the mistake at the temple..."

"I'm going to die. You _need_ to accept that", Felix drawled. For a short while, Alexius hesitated. But then, he lifted his arm pointed at the Herald.

"Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this woman's life!"

"Not this time", Leliana hissed, revealing her face and giving all the Inquisition scouts a sign to deconspire. The sound of bodies falling limply confirmed that the remaining Venatori were being dealt with.

"Your men are dead, Alexius", the Herald said. The magister backed away a little, looking around. Give up, old fool, and end it! But when he realised it was all done, menacing determination flashed through his face. He stood at attention again, backed up by the authority of his grandiose instigator.

"You... you are a mistake!", Alexius nearly choked on his words. "You should never have existed!" He lifted a hand and conjured something in a sea green glimmer – a rune? A secret weapon? No, it was an amulet. _The_ amulet. Soon, Dorian caught a glimpse on it in action. From a tiny point in the air, the Veil was being torn apart like thick fabric treated with lye. It was pulled through back and forth in an unknown rhythm. Dorian had no time to take delight in the awe and the terror inspired by that marvel. He shouted something in protest, shooting an energy bolt to whip the amulet out of Alexius's hand. He missed. Something exploded with a muffled clap, just like on the day the Breach opened. The magister swayed on his feet and the ground disappeared from underneath Dorian's. He was falling, Maker himself knew where.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The attempt at Tevene cursing relies on tweaked Latin.


	8. In the end, the Silence shall fall (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Herald get stranded somewhere in the Redcliffe Castle dungeons. They need to find out why and make their way through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Redcliffe quest part is too long.

The hole spat him out with a loud splash. He was prepared to be submerged under the water, but his back bumped against stone surface instead. He lifted violently and cleared his eyes, coughing and spitting. Graphite black fingers indicated that he should have refrained from looking into a mirror for a while. The view around definitely wasn't Redcliffe Castle's throne room. It was a chamber with spikes of red lyrium gaping out of the ceilling and letting water slowly fill the interior. The ore was everywhere. Red and pulsating, and its beating made the air in the entire chamber tremble. _We are back and we feast._ So, it became more articulate. Whatever it tried to spew into Dorian's brain that time, the substance was... content? Anticipating? The less he thought about it, the better.

In the larger scheme of things, anything was still better than an eternal nothing. The world without Dorian? No, that contradiction wasn't one to be considered. _That world has passed. You can only surrender._ In the end, an eschatology based on red lyrium's whisperings wasn't one he fancied to embrace either. _The Maker myth has been exposed. The Elder One saw the City with His own eyes, and it was scourged with darkness. As the Seven Blessed stepped in, they heard the chant of cinder and blood_. Who in the Void was that Elder One? A magister pretending an ancient Old God priest? And what in Maker's name had happened in the throne room? Alexius pulled the amulet out, opened a vicious hole in... possibly the reality itself. The vortex swallowed Dorian up, expanding...

He scanned the room for other survivers. A willowy figure was sitting huddled on a crate by the wall, catching their breath. Spiky ears stood out from soaking wet auburn hair. Of course it had to be the Herald of Andraste. It was the plan all along, to prevent her from interferring with Alexius. Dorian coudln't consider it a grim adventure anymore. Now he had a responsibility.

"You? What happened?", she inspected the chamber.

"I wish I knew. Displacement?", he thought aloud. "Interesting. This probably isn't what Alexius intended. He used his amulet. Must have transported us... to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?"

"The last thing I remember, we were in the castle hall", the Herald said, picking herself up. "Where are we now?" _Why did you have to put your foot in, silly human? You killed her. You killed both of you. It's just a matter of time you fade away_. If Dorian kept his mind busy with something less sinister, would the nasty things disappear?

"You did something to Alexius's amulet... What was it? What have you done?", the Herald inquired.

"I tried to whip it out of his hand before it discharged. I failed", Dorian sighed and leant against his staff, rubbing the remains of make-up off his eyes.

"What now?", he heard another question.

"Let's see... Looks like we're still in the castle. The dungeon construction looks familiar... And if we are... Oh, of course!", he called out, slapping his forehead with his palm. "It isn't simply where, it's _when_! It was _time_ magic after all... Alexius used the amulet as a focus to move us through time... But seems he didn't exactly succeed. If we are displaced in _both_ space and in time, then... Maker's breath!", he looked at the Herald, struggling to catch up with his thoughts.

"Then what? Is it bad?"

"It's all _interconnected_! We might have winded up in a different setup of influences, connected with our original momentum in the time and space", Dorian jabbered. "It might be in our past, or somewhere stemming from our past, a different present, or a future we would normally call just a probability... An alternate... world, a mere possibility brought to reality, so to speak. At any rate, we're far from home. To put it gently."

On second thoughts, this wasn't the nicest summary of Dorian's efforts so far: to be kicked out of his own world with the temporarily most important person therefrom, owing to a device Dorian himself helped create. This wasn't just responsibility. This was redemption. He was the sole person able to do anything about it. As if he were reaping his reward for taking part in Alexius's scientific endeavour, the special snowflake in his snow globe.

 _This is the only real meaning of Maker's throne, Child of the Imperium. The might of being the chosen one. You're free to prove them all wrong, to pay for all the humiliation._ But why would he need revenge? On whom? For what? Being continually written off by people whom he didn't even bother to remember? For Alexius kicking him out after they exchanged a few harsh words? Dorian sighed internally. These things weren't irrelevant, of course, but he was long past the resentment phase. Well, maybe with one exception. But that enlightened person was highly unlikely to pop out on that party.

"That _does_ sound bad", the Herald glowered at him, making him snap out of bizarre reflections.

"It sounds terrible and it can get even worse, depending on when we are and what happened, or what is yet to happen while we were away. It makes little sense, I know. Can't get used to talking about it as something... actually happening. This state of affairs is... It mustn't be reproduced, under no circumstances. We must call this off if only we can. Look around, see where it took us. Figure out how to get back... if we can. "

"But if we want to get back, won't you have to do exactly the same thing?"

"Point taken. But without you back in the right time and place, our reality is quite likely doomed."

"What if you can't call it off after all?"

"Then we get comfortable in our new presence. Though it sounds even more terrible."

"But you do have plans to get us back, I hope?"

Get out of the dungeon, kill all the Venatori, take the amulet from Alexius, then worry how to return home with as little harmful consequences as possible. Stitch the right timelines back together and prevent the nightmare from ever happening again. Piece of cake! If Alexius pulled it off while _not_ at the height of his mental capacity, Dorian certainly could. But could it have had something in common with the rifts opening near Redcliffe? But if demons used the rifts to enter the physical realm, then people sucked in from the other side should have been spewed out somewhere in the Fade... Unless Dorian was on a brink of a metaphysical discovery.

Last time he tried to calculate the bloody thing with the output screaming that he was trying to defy the very axioms of his science, he got a little tired of trying the impossible. But this? Actually living through the impossible? It was arguably the most exciting thing to ever happen to him. He needed to learn, learn as much as possible.

"I've had some thoughts on that. They're lovely thoughts. Like little jewels", he trilled. "But why don't we get somewhere nicer first? Like, up that staircase ahead?"

The cell gate surrendered on Herald's touch.

"Open? Could this part of the castle be abandoned?", she thought aloud. Luckily, that part of the dungeon led them only one way: out.

"You said this might _actually_ become our new home. Doesn't that bother you?", the Herald asked. As if he fancied the idea of being slowly submerged inside the castle, if not turned into a chunk of lyrium. Wasn't it how the civilisation of the ancient elves ended? Buried underground? So, it could as well have been Dorian's nation's _hubris_ coming back to kick him in the arse sevenfold, to pick a pretty number. Once for each Old God or whatever the myths indicated. Fate of the chosen wasn't so amusing after all.

"The prospect of being mauled by that Elder One's fanatics sooner or later, or merging with the wall?", he asked with a grin. "I've no need to despair about it so soon."

A human voice called in the next chamber. Herald and he exchanged understanding looks before Dorian forced through the door into a square-shaped hall. There was an elven mage clutching the cell bars, swinging back and forth, murmuring under his breath.

"Andraste blessed me... Andraste blessed me... My tears are my sins... My sins, my sins...", the man recited in a flat, lifeless voice.

"Lysas?", the Herald followed inside. "Do you recognise me? Can you remember me from Redcliffe?" But the man gazed ahead and hummed his song, unknowing of their presence.

"What did they do to you?", Lavellan cried out.

"Andraste blessed me...", the echoing chant replied.

"Let's go", Dorian grabbed Herald's arm and gently pulled her away. "We can't help him, nor can he help us. But there might be others."

"Then we must find them."

"We'll scour through every corner of this pit to find out what's going on, I promise."

They got out where castle wings met, embraced by a cavern towering as high as the eye could reach. A waterfall crashed down along the walls painstakingly carved into the stone cliff. A steel grate installed above the bestirred lake connected them with their destination. The whooshing noise of the water gave them advantage over Venatori guards standing on the opposite ends of the passage, and soon the soldiers ceased to pace back and forth. The Herald and Dorian could only hope the lake _wasn't_ where prisoners of this dungeon went.

They could take two paths, and they tried the left one, looking for another larger entrance, stairway, corridors crossing, anything familiar. They entered a maze of chambers all looking the same: lyrium, the lake slowly drowning the dungeons, stone slab, empty cells, more lyrium. It was spiking from the floor and crawling up the walls, ever expanding. Like a living thing.

"What do you think Alexius really intended?", Lavellan asked him.

"I believe his original plan was to remove you from time completely. If that happened, you would have never been at the Temple of Sacred Ashes or mangled his Elder One's plan. 'You should never have existed', all that rubbish. I think your surprise at the castle hall made him reckless. He tossed us into the rift before he was ready, I countered it, the magic went wild, and... here we are. Makes sense?"

"Not really. I mean, how did he even _think_ about erasing me from time? Is that even possible?"

"Normally I'd say no. Obviously Alexius has taken his research to new exciting heights. We always think big in Tevinter. It's a part of our charm", Dorian grinned. "What I _don't_ want to think about is what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn't travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy", he sighed. "But don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you."

"If we're supposed to go back to our time, I think it should be the other way around", she smiled. Oh, the innocent kindness, always tickling Dorian's ego. Like a daisy cast to rot in the compost.

Each door led to another hollow chamber, a path blocked by massive wooden beams, or another door digging in its heels. Between the painful hum of lyrium and the water tapping and splashing onto the cobblestone, another voice started playing hide and seek with them.

"Can you hear it?", Lavellan asked. A withering call returned with more volume in the next chamber whose ceilling had turned into shambles, with debris and loose stone bricks littering the floor all around. Dorian speeded up towards the voice, opening the only door left that didn't lead to a dead end.

"End this torture... if you have mercy...", a woman faltered in the furthest cell, hearing the door clatter. As they ran towards her, they saw a tiny, black-haired elf with all the blood drained from her face and her eyes glimmering with lyrium red. Grand Enchanter Fiona, or rather the upper part of her body still intact by the huge geode of red lyrium growing all around. Or was it...

"You're... alive? How?", she peered at her visitors. "I saw you disappear... into the rift..." The future! At least they didn't have to worry about stumbling upon some wicked versions of themselves. By the way, what would have happened if Dorian met Dorian? Say, the past Dorian feeling sick somewhere in the Minrathean _Subura_ , seeing a suspiciously familiar, ultimately handsome guy telling him to swallow his pride, get a hold of himself and address Maevaris for help? He'd probably have been too drunk to listen. Or he'd have tried flirting with himself, and that prospect appeared a tad cringeworthy. Never mind that part.

"Is this... I don't understand. What happened?", Herald's eyes glowed when she pressed against the cell bars to look closer.

"Red lyrium... It's a disease. The longer you're near it... eventually... you become this. Then they mine your corpse for more", Fiona replied. So, one big question had been answered and it only made things seem worse.

"How long have you been here? Can you tell us the date? Any time range? It's very important", Dorian asked.

"I think it's still Harvestmere... 9:42 Dragon."

"Nine _forty-two_?! We've missed an entire year...", Dorian cried out. An entire year in one of their futures under Alexius's idol's reign... And so much had been destroyed.

"Dorian thinks he can reverse it. Take us back in time. Please, we need you to tell us anything you know", Lavellan said.

"Please... stop this from happening... Alexius... serves the Elder One. More powerful than the Maker. No-one... challenges him and lives..." More powerful than the Maker Himself? That sounded like a magister with a _severe_ god complex. On the other hand, it wasn't the first time on that day somebody suggested the Maker wasn't a player in the great game after all. Many things could have turned out true, but _not_ this.

"The magister's going to regret he didn't just kill me", Lavellan drawled in a breaking voice. If Alexius still listened to his conscience, he had _many_ things to regret. At that moment, it all seemed settled: the magister tried to erase the Herald, so he'd be erased himself. That world should never have occurred. Alexius from that world had to die. Dorian would watch and carry the warning, then try stopping the original Alexius one last time in their real timeline. All the things fell into place.

They found out the Venatori took Herald's other companions and the Spymaster. Dorian told the Enchantress they had to find the amulet Alexius had used. That maybe, hypothetically, he'd be able to reopen the rift and go back without being turned into bloody paste. There were enough places in the universe to end up as a questionable piece of decoration.

"Find Leliana... Quickly... Before the Elder One finds out you're here..."

They didn't need to be told twice. They rushed back to the steel grate bridge, into the other part of the dungeon. Just as they disappeared at the bottom of the staircase, metal clashed behind them, followed by heavy footsteps. The Venatori called for reinforcements. They had to hurry. Another bloody labyrinth of half-submerged passages made Dorian feel like he was running in circles. Everything was replaced by red lyrium. Even the hideous wolf carvings. The Herald tugged his arm.

"A voice! Somebody's... praying?"

They followed the trace to another dizzying dungeon hall, guided by an echo:

"... shall lead... the parts of this... who trusts in the Mak- ... fire is her..."

"It's Cassandra!", Lavellan pulled Dorian forward. As he spread the door wide open, the Nevarran raised from the floor and pressed forward against the cell door.

"Madame de Fer, can you see what I see? Or is the evil oozing false visions into my eyes?" Her face flashed up with a sickly, fervent colour, dark blemishes appeared all over. In the opposite cell, another woman groaned out loud and looked them up and down. Scarce black curls thinned down by the lyrium sickness showed on her bared head. Her silver-white robe got soiled with grey mold from the walls. A sight not meant for anybody, unless the world itself was fading out with her grace.

"What is this supposed to be? A pretend rescue to gain our trust? Do you think I'll fall for that?", the magess barked at them.

"It's not a trick, Lady Vivienne. It's me. I'm here to help you", the Herald tried to calm her down.

"So, you've returned to us?", Pentaghast asked. "Can it be? Has Andraste given us another chance?"

"You were _obliterated_. I was there. You can drop this pathetic ruse", the Enchantress carried on ranting.

"How can you be? Maker forgive me. I have failed you. I failed everyone", Lady Cassandra cried out. "The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life..."

"No trick, I'm afraid. We definitely aren't dead", Dorian said. "Alexius accidentally sent us through time. Forward. If we find him, we may be able to return to our original time."

"He sent you to _this_ time? Was that meant to be a fate worse than death?", Lady Vivienne snorted. Had it really become _that_ bad?

"He made a mistake. And we're going to correct it", Lavellan said.

"Confidence. We'll see how long that lasts", Vivienne replied.

"Can you really make it so that none of this ever took place?", Lady Cassandra asked.

"If Dorian's right and can actually reverse the spell...", Lavellan answered. If. The great shining key word, if.

"Andraste, please let that be true", Pentaghast called out while the Herald opened her cell. Actually, Dorian wouldn't have been insulted with a bit of miraculous enlightment.

They found out that the Venatori had raised an army of demons and assassinated Empress Celene to enter Orlais like starving vultures. It was easy to tell that they scored a landslide victory all over Thedas. "There is nothing left", Lady Vivienne concluded her tale. What were they facing then? A catastrophe more deadly than collars and tight corsets becoming the fashion trend of 2030 TE? Another Blight? A real end of times?

"When they took us, Alexius locked himself in the throne room. That's where we should find him", Cassandra said.

"We met Enchanter Fiona on the way. She says Sister Leliana was here too", the Herald said.

"Ah, yes. She was", Vivienne hissed. "But they took her away long ago. Maker have mercy on her poor soul."

On the brighter side of it all, Herald's old-new companions fought the Venatori back with true zeal. Quite possibly, the red lyrium slowly forcing its way through their bodies amplified this desperate, furious strength. The party crossed the grate bridge into a guard post of some sort, silently instilled in its decay: food and drinks petrified into lyrium, skeletons still sitting firm by the table, as if the death had taken them by surprise. Cockroaches swarmed across the floor, scavenging for any remains of life. Between tin plates there was a note written by a trembling hand, a prayer dedicated to a New God. Once again, something about folks walking the Golden City and the Maker being a lie. Herald's friends scoured through the adjacent chambers to find some rubbish and bedraggled parchments.

"According to this note, Alexius expects an assault even though the entire Ferelden was slaughtered trying to seize the castle soon after we disappeared", Dorian reported, holding the most legible sheet he found. "Could you enlighten us, Ladies?"

"Alexius said something about failing the Elder One", Pentaghast answered. "When the Elder One arrives to take his toll on the world, everything will end. Alexius must still think he can protect himself." But if there was anything in the world Alexius could want to protect, even from his gods, it wasn't himself. So, it was still going on, Felix's neverending torment...

 _Who would risk their neck for you with such determination?_ Yes, yes, point taken, Dorian the underdog had no friends. He'd have gladly got drunk thinking of it, but it would have only been _back home_. The party pressed on upwards, through a sequence of chambers filled with sophisticated torture devices. Some of the charred corpses wore Chantry robes and caps. A strained, hoarse woman's voice forced Dorian to snap out of a state of numb, dream-like absence.

"The Elder One demands answers!", a man shouted inside one of the rooms, in between the blows and screams filled with pain.

"He'll get used to disappointment!", the other voice growled back and shifted into piercing, zealous laughter. The Herald drew her swords and kicked the door open. The rest of the party ran up against an extraordinary sight: sister Leliana clenched her legs tight around oppressor's chin and neck. The man gurgled before his spine cracked, ending his struggle. Lavellan took his keychain and set Leliana's hands free. Spymaster's eyelids and cheeks were collapsed, skin and bones, all covered in purple-ish grey spots and deep furrows. Dorian could swear he had seen such condition somewhere... The Herald tried to tell the spymaster what they knew, but her words didn't have a warm reception.

"And mages always wonder why people fear them... No one should have such power", Leliana glowered at them, especially at Dorian. Hours ago she trusted him. They were together on a mission.

"Yes, it's dangerous and unpredictable. But before the Breach, nothing we did -", Dorian tried to explain. Nothing they did had the tiniest chance of coming to life. If it had, he wouldn't have allowed Alexius to run his desperate project. He never would.

"Enough!", Leliana cut him off. "This is all play pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The _whole world_ suffered. It _was_ real."

As if Dorian didn't know it, that the world had suffered. As if he could feel compassion for a _whole_ world falling apart. As if the mere realisation could help him solve anything. Yes, this was an excellent occasion to make the inconsiderate ignorant out of him. The thing was, if they actually managed to go back, that future would actually never have existed, save in Dorian's and Herald's memories. In the end, _they'd_ be the ones carrying that burden. It would be up to _them_ what to do with the awareness. _They'd_ be the ones to guide the reality far away from that future. The original Sister Leliana and others _wouldn't_ have to suffer. But it was no use trying to reach the desperate woman _at that time_.

"I'm sorry for what happened", Lavellan said. Leliana answered with a leer full of bloodlust. She retrieved her bow and quiver, then led them out through another grate bridge, right above the place where they set off. How many dungeons had Fereldans needed on that bloody island?!

"What happened while we were away?", Dorian asked.

"Stop talking", Leliana snapped.

"I've only just started? And I was simply asking for information!"

"No. You're talking to fill the silence. Nothing happened that you wanted to hear." Oh, sure. Except he wanted. He wanted to hear every bloody thing that could help him understand instead of wallowing in pity and accepting the failure. But apparently a different policy was favoured.

All they needed was a Fade rift opening right in front of the courtyard gate. Dorian and Cassandra rushed on to lift the portcullis while the others fought with demons.

"Don't bother with closing that rift!", Cassandra called, straining her muscles to move the rusty gears. They raced on through the docks, passing through a sequence of sinister glyphs splattered with blood. Every mage from Tevinter knew that scenery, even if it was their nightmare.

"This is madness... Alexius can't have wanted this", Dorian cried out. Not his Alexius. Not the one who taught him all the virtues of a mage. Alexius he admired would have never been so short-sighted, so blind to the scale of destruction he had been causing. If that Elder One was really coming to end everything, Alexius at least deserved a blow of mercy from someone who knew his other self.

Another staircase took them outside, to the courtyard where he could see the new reality for itself. The sky was now green. The Breach spread all across. The air grew dense from a milky mist. Red lyrium stole the shape from the trees it had devoured, something unexpectedly pleasing for the eye. Right above the castle, monstrous jet black rocks floated in the air. The stone carried branching paths and unreal wobbly chambers. Quite like in the Fade, if one removed all the mesmerising, flattering stuff... Could that have been the hypothetic Fade in its raw state, acting as something... objective, unaltered by observer's point of view? Right ahead, a head ripped off from a statue, which had to originally be ten times as tall as the castle, rotated lazily, dabbed by smaller chunks of rock. How was Dorian supposed not to marvel at it all leaving all the ethical controversies aside? It was a mess, stabbing the soul with the scale of its irrevocable decay, world's final convulsion before the great silence...

Dorian could hear rifts tearing the air apart all around. They hared off to avoid any encounter with stray shades and shrieks preying in the corners. They climbed the stairs to the nearest terrace, passed through the doorway and slammed it behind, blocking the entrance with crates and wooden beams. Now, they went after the amulet... and after Alexius's head.


	9. In the end, the Silence shall fall (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herald's party reaches the insides of the Redcliffe castle in their apocalyptic future. They aim to deal with Alexius and get everyone into the right timeline.

Judging from the remaining furniture and decorations, Fereldans were the most comfortable with mountain sturdiness and simple, convenient shapes. No twirling ornaments sprinkled with gold, no mirrors, not even a piece of panelling to warm up the dampness of stone chambers. Even carpets and curtains were kept plain and patternless, completely opposite to Antivan tapestries full of unicorns and too airy clothes. Even the portraits of Arl's ancestors only conveyed knights standing in the same, proud pose shown from different angles. But what else could have Dorian expected from a nation fond of blood sausage, ram tenderloin and beets?

"I wonder if Alexius left any notes, diagrams... they would be of great value", Dorian said.

"This part of the castle used to hold the private chambers. Perhaps the magister left something behind", Sister Leliana replied. Private chambers sounded like a good place to trace Alexius's presence. Or Felix's.

"What have become of Felix? Do you know?"

"Yes, I know."

"You aren't going to tell me?", Dorian replied with a gentle scorn.

"You'll find out soon enough." A chilling draught smudged his shoulders - no more talking with that woman in that timeline.

They ransacked messy, dusty chambers, finding spiderwebs dripping with Fade energy, loose sheets torn away from books and forsaken half-charred journals. Inside one of them Dorian recognised Master Gereon's handwriting. His own hands shuddered slightly when he touched the pages, defying magister's privacy.

 

> I have tried countless times to go back before the Conclave explosion, before Felix's caravan was attacked by darkspawn, before the Venatori first arrived in Minrathous – without success. The Breach is the wellspring that makes this magic possible, and travel outside its timeline is impossible.

Dorian chuckled under his breath, leafing through the booklet. Alexius described each of his failed attempts trying to expound the tiniest differences that could have mattered in the process. The Herald dug another enchanter's diary out. It indicated that Alexius's failure displeased the Elder One enough to have the magister killed. Truth be told, the Elder One didn't sound like one of the folks who needed a good reason. Still, Alexius allegedly had some "shard doorways" installed in the throne room to shut himself with Felix. Venatori mage's entry was recent. Alexius must have been still rotting in the throne room.

"It's all because of the Breach! _Yes_! It all now makes sense! The phenomenon was impossible under _standard_ conditions... After the Breach, Alexius used the energetic anomaly to break the temporal continuity... Which means two things: first, since the Breach seems to be growing all the time, charging the amulet should take much less effort... We can get out!", he jabbered to the companions exchanging blurry expressions. " _Secundo,_ Alexius can't erase anyone or anything from time. If I could just trace back to the anchoring point Alexius used in our timeline...", Dorian paced back and forth around the room, flourishing with his arms. "Two-point entanglement... think, you idiot!", he shouted at himself, patting his forehead with his hand palm.

"Don't force it on yourself. We can still get more clues. Maybe we pry the solution out of Alexius himself. But we should move on", the Herald pulled Dorian's sleeve, nearly dragging him out of the room. Spymaster Leliana guided them through the upper part of the castle towards the vestibule and the main hall. As they approached the throne room, Dorian sensed the air wobbling in Fade rift patterns. It was much more intense than ever before. It was hard to tell where the Veil was anymore.

In the main hall, most of the roof got torn apart. A column collapsed in the middle of the chamber, blocking all the way across. One lonely chandelier threatened to plummet on the passersby any minute. The door to the guard posts Dorian remembered from before was barricaded by wooden scaffolding. Deeper inside the room, a Fade rift floated between the columns like a huge gleaming spiderweb. A couple of Venatori with a mage in the lead tried to ward the emerging demons off.

"If we just wait around the corner and don't attract attention we might have less work to do", the Herald whispered. They sneaked behind column remains rising up by the ballustrade and watched the spellbinder jump about a rage demon. He was tough. The extensive use of mana draining and energy conversion techniques suggested education in Carastes or Neromenian. He appeared to be amplifying his personal aura with rift's energy and redirecting it to attack the demon. Using the rift against its own minions, in a sense.

"Care to shoot two birds with one stone?", Dorian whispered to Lavellan. "Try disrupting the rift. That mage is drawing energy from it. I'm curious what happens if you pop it while he's still connected." Right after he voiced his suggestion, the demon dispersed into tiny embers.

"All right. It would be nice to close the rift before the next demon spawn anyway", she replied and crouched down to aim. Dorian covered her back with a shocking spell prepared to shoot. Herald's hand stood out from behind the cover and the Tevinter saw the nature of her Mark up close: a bundle of light prancing like fireworks, bending rift's edges and sewing them together. The rift imploded and the barrier around the Venatori mage popped like a ripe puffball. Dorian took the advantage and attracted opponent's attention with a magical discharge while Lady Vivienne froze the spellbinder solid from the flank. As the rift was gone, the party approached the throne room entrance. What Dorian remembered as an open archway was now filled water-tight with a substance resembling hard dust to fit a massive keyhold-shaped stone door in the middle. The lower part comprised a rune lock with carvings of unknown origin.

"That's the shard door the Venatori mentioned? Maker's Breath! Where did Alexius find this? How did he even move it here?", Dorian marveled. "Some of our oldest fortresses have such portals. Their history isn't well explored, though. They must be at least as old as the Imperium."

"My clan stayed near ruins with similar archways once. Solas would love to sleep there. Do you think we can we open this door?", Lavellan asked.

"Perhaps. The lock looks ancient which probably means practically unbreakable and sophisticated. How desperate and paranoid must Alexius be?", Dorian called out, stroking the dark patina on the carvings.

"Check these journals again. There might be more about the door. How they get to pass it", the Herald said. Dorian pulled the booklet from under his armour and leafed through it again. Spellbinder's final entry read: _Now, his most "trusted" assistants can only see him if we all go at once, together..._

"I think I've got it", he said. "Seems like the key has been divided between Alexius's mages. But what could fit inside the mechanism?", he dabbed his lips with his fingers.

"This, perhaps?", he turned around to see Enchanter Vivienne standing with one foot rested on a Venatori's corpse. She was holding a glowing red gem through a leather mage's glove. "It's polished so cleverly it looks like a piece of a puzzle." She approached the doorway and fitted the shard into one of the dents.

"Good! That makes four more to go. So, I suspect we should now potter about the castle looking for a needle in a haystack? Couldn't we just wait until Alexius gets his dinner?", Dorian asked.

"If we don't hurry, we'll be the dinner for something far worse than Alexius, my dear", Vivienne replied.

"That's it", the spymaster intervened with a flash of enlightment in her tone. "Whoever's still alive outside the throne room must protect the food supplies. We must start from the kitchens."

"Something tells me the second course are roast cockroaches. Sprinkled with lyrium, preferably", Dorian scoffed as they followed Leliana into the servant wing. Leliana scolded him with a glare ordering to stop prattling and spare the dying world some dignity, or something of that sort. There was nothing dignified in whatever Dorian had seen. Now, he was even more eager to return to his old life as soon as possible, if only to see everybody likeable again.

As it turned out, the Venatori shut themselves in the dining room, flipping the tables over and installing more scaffoldings to mine lyrium from the walls. This time, Dorian didn't even bother to lift their helmet visors. Whoever they were, all those faces had been lost to history long ago.

The party ransacked the dining room and the larder, including a cellar with large casks of good wine, turned red in a way which was plain wrong; supply rooms, libraries, even the Chantry chapel with a chipped pedestal reminding where Lady Andraste used to triumph. Madame Vivienne collected shard key pieces, gathering them carefully through her gauntlet, to announce success in the end: all the pieces fit together. They could return to the ancient masterwork and all the secrets lying beneath.

The doorway turned out partly mechanic and partly enchanted. As soon as the gears rattled right behind the lock, lyrium shards sent a beam of energy along the maze of carvings. A rune slot far above their heads, presumably containing the second lock, lit up and spread the door wings open with coarse, stuttering motion.

Dorian had to change his mind about red lyrium being the worst choice in decoration since Fereldan canine ornaments. Now, the throne room included hanged bodies, dangling from every piece of a roof beam sticking out and from every chandelier. Dozens of corpses gleaming with their morbid grayness like cheap candles, wearing colours of all the factions involved: the Inquisition, the Venatori, Redcliffe and Denerim all together. And the obnoxious odour of conflagration... Even Dorian despised it in excess. It all looked like Alexius was collecting the final procession of minions to his tomb. Only a single mage kneeled in the corner in perfect stillness, turned towards the fireplace.

"I think it's over, Alexius. You haven't stopped me and you never will", Lavellan said. Alexius turned around slowly to face them from the other end of the hall.

"So it is", he drawled, turning away again, looking for reassurance in the fire prancing before his eyes. "I knew you would appear again. Not that it would be now, but I knew I haven't destroyed you. My final failure."

"Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? To yourself?", Dorian asked. Of course, Alexius didn't look Dorian in the eye. _He_ was the one who always got the wrong end of the stick, neglected his duties, ran away and let his seniors down.

"It doesn't matter now. All we can do is wait for the end."

"That's not true", the Herald replied. "We can undo this. You can still help us get back."

Alexius could have taken that little step to help them, to save his own honour. To prove there were still remains of the the wise man somewhere on the inside. But no. Alexius kept on ranting, staring into the fire as if it was his sole and final judge. Leliana sized the other mage up and down and sneaked up to him. At that point, the magister wouldn't have even noticed an executioner's axe coming for his head.

"How many times have I tried? The past cannot be undone. All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought... Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes for me, for you, for us all."

Leliana pulled the other Venatori's head up and put a dagger to his neck. The face was barely recognisable, wizened like a dried fruit and dyed with the putrid combination of purple and graphite black spots. The man released something in between a moan and a gurgle, but his body didn't even twitch in protest. Dorian looked at him, then again at Leliana, and only then did it pierce him through: they were both carrying the taint. And the more intensely Dorian inspected man's face, the more he was persuaded to believe...

"Felix!", Alexius gasped with a stifled cry, violently returned from the realm of regret and might-have-beens.

" _That's_ Felix?! Maker's breath, Alexius, what have you done?", Dorian cried out through a clod squeezing his throat. An empty shell, a vegetable. Probably already hearing the Blight in his head, the dormant lust for flesh waiting for the right moment to take over. Not darkspawn yet, but definitely not Felix anymore. And then, there was Inquisition's spymaster, perhaps holding all their fates in her hand. As if that one death could repay for the suffering she reminded with such persistence. Felix, why Felix? Why the least willing participant in the entire display? Was it sister Leliana holding the knife anymore, or just the obscure craving for destruction the Blight was oozing into her blood?

"He would have died, Dorian! I _saved_ him!", Alexius cried. Saved him. Saved. Of course. That was all Alexius ever did, drag Felix along not to be smitten with the bitter truth that there had only been _one_ chance to actually save Felix, and that Alexius wasn't there. He missed the right time and fooled himself that any time would do. The world could crumble into pieces, but Felix? Never. He was bonded with Alexius's eye and Alexius had stopped blinking only not to lose sight of his son _._ After all, Alexius had him fixed, just not the way Felix needed. What a wicked thing it was, magisters' love for their blood heirs. Like building a pond in the garden thinking it would make a good mirror, getting surprised when the fish set the water in motion.

"Please, don't hurt my son... I'll do everything you ask", Alexius whined like a beaten dog. As if they could really add to his suffering. Leliana's eyes slowly whitening out from the taint knew no mercy on that day. Lavellan fixed her large pupils on Dorian in an apologetic glance, then stepped up carefully, reaching out to Alexius.

"Hand over the amulet and we let him go", she said, turning her head at Alexius, then at Leliana, then again at the magister. Just one tiny step...

"Let him go, I swear you get what you want", Alexius cried out.

" _I_ want the world back", Leliana growled. Her unmistakable hand blighted Felix's body once and for all, and with it – all the hope for Alexius's help. At a moment like that... When he had almost conceded... Truth had been told, there was no justice. There was just mindless dying. But that would have been the last time. Alexius stirred the air around him and barriered himself, drawing concentric shapes within his protective bubble. Not good. He was going to gather energy from the Fade and blast it right in their faces.

"Resonance barrier! Quickly!", Dorian shouted, pulling the Herald within his aura. He surrounded himself with gleaming golden-orange embers, an individual form developed for years. Leliana joined them, aiming at Alexius from the bow. Arrows twisted their route and slid on the membrane separating the magister from his opponents. The Enchantress covered Cassandra with a descending ethereal parasol in the shade of steel blue. Dorian pictured two barriers joining together into one shape, a sphere embracing all five of them. Alexius had to release the missile prematurely to prepare a different spell.

Dorian had never really thought about _fighting_ his former master. One of the most excellent representatives of the Circle in Minrathous, what could have been his weaker point in combat? To buy some time for thinking, Dorian performed a combination he had learned observing one of his earlier tutors, a straight-laced retired lieutenant from Marothius. He thrust his staff blade against the ground so it sliced through the tacky carpet, screeched against the floor and got stuck in a crack between cobblestones. With an extensive swing of his arm, he drew energy from the Fade through a flimsy, whip-like channel. A band of golden sparks grew and twisted above and behind his barrier, waiting for a signal to release. All he had to do now was dance a bit. Spin, release, another whip prepared with his other arm. In the meantime, Vivienne placed glyphs all around Alexius to corner him and cast a stunning hex. Alexius wove another barrier around himself – too powerful. Angry flames dabbed it like feathers.

Alexius's new protective bubble didn't add to the reality; it drew from it. Tiny cracks in the air started weaving another spider web. Right before the Fade rift opened, Alexius had sped himself up dashing to the other end of the room, hardly perceptible. He was able to use the Fade in astonishing ways. Combat skill? No, this had to be another perk of the amulet. Alexius played it out well, knowing that they needed his device unhindered. If there was a way to let Lavellan and Cassandra through, past Alexius's defences... But if he was using the Fade to reinforce just like the Venatori before, closing the rift could have been their chance.

“Focus on the rift! I’ll cover you!”, Dorian called out to the Herald, grappling with a shriek trying to tear his staff away. “Or not”, he groaned as soon as something below tripped him up. He was getting ready to swing his staff to mow through both demons, but two arrows drove a wheeze out of a dessicated carcass above him. Seeing Cassandra approaching, he kicked the other one in a spot he’d believe to be vulnerable and lifted in a quick surge. Lavellan’s arm quivered, tied up in fizzing bolts, but the rift obeyed and closed properly. Dorian kept an eye on Alexius’s defences, sparking weaker and weaker in magenta and indigo.

Vivienne conjured a blade from the thinnest ice, twisting like wispy twigs, to go after Alexius with Cassandra and the Herald. As soon as magister’s barrier faded away, Leliana’s arrow immobilized his arm flicking to cast a missile. A projectile from Vivienne’s weapon struck Alexius in his chest, making him squinch and cower closer to the fireplace. Cassandra rammed the mage with her shield, throwing him stunned on the ground. Dorian bestirred to move forward to witness the final blow but his legs froze in place. He couldn’t. The blade sunk in the flesh with a flump, too humble and inconspicious. Herald’s companions circled magister’s body. Dorian hobbled towards the twisted bundle of bleeding rags and tore the amulet away from it. He tried to look away, but it drew the eye near like a fly trap.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he. All those lies he told himself, the justifications... He lost Felix long ago and didn't even notice. Once he was a man to whom I compared all the others. Sad, isn't it?”, he asked into the void, kneeling.

"But we can still reason with Alexius in our time, can we?", Lavellan asked from behind.

"I suppose", Dorian replied blankly. But something told him they'd merely manage to add the shame of failure to Alexius's torment. Dorian caressed a cube cut from malachite embedded with tiny arcane symbols. Alexius would send him with reagents to every stonemason in Minrathous to find the right slab of mineral. "It's the same one we made in Minrathous. At least we don't have to worry about copies. That's a relief."

A piercing, hoarse shriek cut through the thick air, swelling as the echo reached the castle. Debris on the floor quivered, announcing that something enormous had arrived. The chamber vibrated in the rythm of muffled punching and jamming.

"Do your work, Tevinter", Lady Vivienne said. "The time is growing short. That roar... The Elder One. Alexius's master is coming." Another suspicion froze Dorian's blood. Where did that master of the new world get a huge beast whose roar could be heard in a mile's radius? The answer that came to mind was the only thing able to make Dorian's day that hadn't appeared yet: an Archdemon. But an Archdemon combined with magisters and Tevinter cultists? This gave the worst associations. According to the pamphlet, the Old Gods were supposed to be long gone. What was that atrocity, then? An attempt to _improve_ and Old God? One could never, _ever_ say things couldn't get worse anymore.

"Give me an hour to work out the spell...", he muttered, leafing through Alexius's journal once again. A scholar in haste usually meant a vastly increased probability in dismemberment.

"You don't have that much. You must go _now_ ", Leliana hurried them up. Well, _kaffas_ – talk about courting disaster. Dorian couldn't make anything more out of magister's notes, just focusing on the drumbeat in his chest. It _didn't_ inspire. Vivienne and Cassandra exchanged understanding nods and drew their weapons. The Herald opened her mouth and held something back but she didn't get a chance to speak.

"Not a word, my dear. We're already walking corpses. We'll do anything we can to keep them at bay", the enchantress said.

"The only way we live is if this day never comes. You have as much time as I have arrows", the spymaster nodded. Cassandra and Vivienne left without looking back and jammed the ancient door behind them. Leliana strung her bow and fixed her eyes on the doorway.

"I will never forget it...", Lavellan faltered.

Charging the amulet with energy from the Fade was the easiest part of the deal, with the Veil disappearing from reality each moment they lingered. Obviously, they could only move along the timelines depenent on the Breach. Travelling back to the past also should have made it more convenient. But how in the Void was he supposed to root out that one and only point in time when they left? He let the amulet lift on its own and searched for the one energetic imprint he needed. Symbols on the amulet lit up and faded away into various glyphs. There must have been some kind of intelligent memory, some connection to the Fade registering how the amulet had been used. Dorian focused on a single guiding thought: go back, go back where you had fired last... He could only hope Alexius didn't use his magic for other purposes in the meantime.

Something switched in his mind and flimsy visions merged with his normal perception. He saw a shape of a face, chalk white and sharpened by ageless anger. "Your magic is useless. You aren't worthy of magister's title, petty mortal", a thundering voice hissed. The picture blurred and reappeared: Felix marched towards him faster than his body allowed, with his arm reached out. "I have suspected what you've been doing, Father. Please, stop it. Nothing relevant will change. You're only harming the world!" The image blurred and rewinded again before Felix reached his father. But then, Dorian had to distract himself from the visions. Something was going on outside: the door was open, Leliana shot at the swarm of demons trying to pour in. The Herald wavered, ready to draw her swords. Dorian grabbed her wrist and pulled her over.

"You move and we all die!", he shouted, stabilising the temporal rift with the focusing crystal in his staff. Watching Alexius's failures would give him nothing. Dorian had to try to connect on his own. Take the Herald to safety, undo the last year... In a blink of an eye, he almost got the right point. Instead of Alexius's perspective, he saw his own: Valerius barking at him, the suffocating Venatori helmet. "You never should have existed!", aventurine green lighting and a blackout. Dorian grabbed Lavellan as firm as he could and took a leap of faith into the rift. He bumped against the stone once more. Annoying cold pinching in his lower back and the weight of another body assured him they were still both mostly physical. Such an adventure and Dorian's greatest memoir would be his arse painted black and blue... People in the castle throne room looked very much alive as well, turning their eyes onto the Herald. She was still huddling next to Dorian, glued to his arm. The knot of energy slurped to become nothing.

"Looks like we're still alive... In the right time and place again. Ha!", he hooted. "Ladies and gentlemen, please refrain from the applause. We'll be accepting gifts and congratulations back in Haven." They picked themselves up. Hobbling a litte, Dorian leant against his staff. "And _you_ 'd have to do better than that", he pointed at Alexius. Did the magister really hope to get away with murder once he had turned his best apprentice into an enemy?

"You sent us to the future, Alexius. From what we've seen there, your Elder One isn't too forgiving. I can't let him become a god. What are you going to do now?", Lavellan asked. It was highly unlikely Alexius had any spare cards in his sleeve, anything the Inquisition hadn't known about.

"You won. There is no point extending this charade", the magister replied. Better late than a year too late... Dorian spotted the amulet on the floor and scratched ancient Tevene runes off from its surface with the steel heel of his boot. It became just another funny trinket without a chance to channel arcane energy. Much as Dorian would have usually like to dissect a device of this sort, that amulet had to be destroyed to become a proof, a keepsake, a cautionary note. "It's going to be all right", Felix reassured Alexius senior. His personal definition of "all right" must have changed dramatically since they last met in Tevinter.

"That's it", Lady Pentaghast ordered. "Seize the magister and spread the word of his surrender. Inform the troops from Denerim that the Inquisition has intercepted the castle until the Arl arrives in safety."

"Charter, notify the farmland camp about our success. Tell them to pass it on to Haven, Lothering and Crestwood. Get us reinforcements from the Crossroads to secure the castle. We've done good work", Leliana cheered.

Dorian sat on the platform stairs and tore the Venatori epaulets and emblems off from the armour he was still wearing. The enemy disguise stung and scratched him with increasing embarrassment. At any rate, he'd rather not be seen wearing it anymore. The spymaster ordered some scouts to escort the steward upstairs and inform the rebel mages that they were free from their dependence on Alexius. Probably also that they were now awaiting King's judgment for unauthorised negotiations with a foreign political force. Enchanter Vivienne swore she had to witness it. Cassandra and Leliana consulted vigorously with the Herald:

"The mages can't remain here. As soon as the King sets his foot in Redcliffe, he will reinstate the Arl and the mages will be left on their own", Leliana persuaded. "And we're the ones who asked for their assistance."

"Haven isn't ready to take so many people in. New camps in the basin would be completely exposed and vulnerable."

"Where will they go then? Back to the Circle Tower?", Leliana scoffed.

"There's also that", the Seeker sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "I have never considered it as a real option, but for everyone's sake we should keep the idea from Cullen."

"And from the Court Enchanter", the spymaster added.

"But the mages cannot be released without surveillance either, even if we showed a grand gesture of charity. If the rebellion spreads anew, it will be our failure and responsibility. I believe it's too dangerous", Cassandra carried on.

"At any rate, this isn't our soil. We have no right to decide. It's all the same with the magister. To allow the Arl to judge him, Ferelden will have to inquire the Magisterium about their statement. They will disclaim Alexius's choices, the baton will go to the King. It's going to be another uphill battle."

"So, after all we've done we must wait?", the Herald asked.

"We're at a standstill until the forces from Denerim arrive", Pentaghast sighed.

"We should bring Josephine over. If we're to prepare for negotiations, Redcliffe Castle is more fit for entertainment than Haven ever will", Leliana said. "It's also an opportunity to show the Arl we've reintroduced order."

"Good idea. The Arl is the injured party and he has the upper hand", Cassandra nodded.

Dorian sighed at the squabble. Alexius was tied up where he knelt, mortified by the fireplace. From a wise scholar and progressive politician he cheapened himself to a pet, from a pet he was degraded to a pawn. One world had been saved, another was meeting its end. Felix sat beside Dorian and started loosening his armour as well.

"I've never looked good in these colours. How many years has it been...", Felix said, staring at epaulets from fine carved leather resting loose in his hands. "I wish I had never worn them. I wish I had had the strength to leave my Father like you did." One matter in which Dorian could have felt superior to his friend. But had Felix left his father, he could have only counted on an imminent, lonely, bitter end, denied the dignity of his parentage. Enough that people had always picked at his lack of magical talent despite the noble origin. Dorian at least had worked hard on his label of the local fool. But no one had the right to demand that Felix Alexius humbled himself while living on borrowed time.

"Who would have helped us then? If it wasn't for you, the Herald would have fallen in the trap and Alexius would have been unstoppable. You were the only person able to steal his attention."

"The only one? What about Dorian the Whisky Vanquisher?", Felix half-smiled.

"You know what it's like. I'm afraid I'd only have been interesting if I wanted to join him. Which I didn't."

"I was thinking if there's anything else I could do. If I testify, maybe they let me go home? Then, if I make it to Minrathous, I'll address the Senate. Tell everyone about the danger and about your fight. At least I'll made my final days matter." Dorian held himself back from a painful moan. He'd had enough existential anguish for one day, even though Felix usually had a few gloomy black pearls in his pocket.

"Don't you rush with those finalities. Where will I drop by next time I'm in Minrathous?", Dorian chirped. Felix winced as if he was saying: on my grave, bloody idiot, how do you think? The Pavus scion had never been good at walking on eggshells when death was in concern. It didn't get better now that he knew that Felix's demise, led astray by his father, had found its way back. At last? That would have been a terrible thing to say. Even though, the spark in Felix's eyes had faded out almost completely since Dorian had last seen him. Insult to injury, anyone would have gotten fed up trying to hold magister Alexius's life together.

But from now on, that life was somebody else's concern. As for Dorian, one might have thought that he'd be in his element as the hero of the day. But since it degraded his two good friends in the eyes of history, the victory tasted of black licorice.


	10. The muzzle of blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The negotiations are prepared to coincide with Satinalia celebrations. But right before the joyful evening, a horrifying discovery is made that tips the scales to mages' great disadvantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains **spoilers concerning the origin of oculara** (its presence in the game is somehow disproportionate to its meaning and weight), and that involves mentions of mass murder and demonic possession.

What a beautiful disaster it was, Inquisition's time in Redcliffe. Lady Josephine bent over backwards to make the upcoming feast coincide with Satinalia. All in all, the delay turned out a matter of single days. The King and the Arl were to arrive any time, greet their subjects and dine with Inquisition's representatives. The morning after, they'd all negotiate the fate of Fiona's mages. Dorian took a while to stroll around the village before everyone would start running like a pack of scalded cats. In the Imperium, Satinalia were a day when the world figuratively turned inside out. The Altus had to serve themselves while the servants rested. Cities remained dead silent throughout the day to burst with colours and songs in the night. A fool was chosen to rule Minrathous solely on that day. At midnight, the fool made a crude speech voicing concerns of all the people regardless of their social standing. Then, massive processions poured through the streets, towards Satina glistening in her full charm. Until sunrise, people indulged themselves in all sorts of behaviour otherwise considered excessive. Compared with that, the Fereldans shared fruits of their labour and celebrated their community. The settlements feasted together, neighbours helping each other out during the preparations. From what Dorian had heard, hand-made gifts weren't uncommon among friends.

Every patch of land, from the forest-touched hillock to the paved docks, got filled with market stalls and supply crates. Merchants gathered for the holiday fair with rarer exotic wares kept specially for the occasion. They made Dorian's walk somewhat nostalgic: bolts of brocade from Churneau, Nevarran oils and incense, dried dates, nutmeg, vanilla and an edible type of deep mushroom. In the paved circle around the Hero of Ferelen's statue, the villagers prepared long tables to feast in the evening. The statue standing in the centre received a coronet of blushing winterblooms and vibrant ribbons. The tavern had its lanterns mantled in cases of fabric. Paintings of rural legends on the walls had been refreshed. Up the hill, by the healer's hut, one could try some flat-cake with minced druffalo beef, vegetables and toasted pine nuts – another plebeian delicacy Dorian fancied a bit more than he intended.

It took Dorian five silver and an indecorous squabble to get a formal outfit, as the local tailor couldn't understand how one could spoil the traditional Fereldan blend of tunic and tabard with Orlesian fabric, padded shoulders and a few darts in the waist. Thanks to the persuasive effort, Dorian could attend the feast with flair approximating a Laetan preying on second-hand formalwear discarded by disgruntled magisters. Which was still better than local knights who covered whatever attractiveness they could afford behind those flappy sheets of wool tucked beneath their belts.

As he was savouring the fact that local beer only _gained_ in taste when served hot, seasoned with honey, a pinch of cinnamon and cloves, a vigorous pat on the shoulder nearly made him shoot up. Pentaghast's sharpened cheekbones, narrowed lips and a lightning-like zigzag on her forehead definitely weren't signals of jolly celebration.

"Lord Pavus. I am sorry to interrupt your private time, but... there is something important you need to see."

"I wonder what it could be. Antivan belly dancers?", he cheered.

"Finish your beer, Tevinter. It's not the best time for jokes", she replied. Not wanting to get his beautiful arse lammed right before the feast, he drank in two large gulps and fired himself out of The Gull and the Lantern. The Nevarran led on past the Hero's statue and downstairs to the harbour. The lower part of Redcliffe was infested with the stingy smell of smoked fish.

"The villagers wondered if they could open up a few stalls in an abandoned house near the docks. No-one had walked in or out for weeks. Nobody claimed it when the merchants searched for the owner. When our scouts broke in...", she paused with a silent painful grunt. The door squeaked when pushed by her gloved hand.

The Veil inside was... shaky. The shack resounded with whispering rustle familiar to any necromancer: memories of souls who departed abruptly, shattered spirits still clinging to remains of real people. Unlike Fade rifts, these bled into the world discreetly, like a chilling breath venturing through the realms. Some took the firm shape of ghosts, some remained as feeble as words howling in the wind. Normally, the smell would have arrived long before any sight of corpses, but there were only skulls. Piles and shelves of skulls with sky blue gems glistening in their eye sockets. Some skulls were lying loose, some were impaled on sharpened pegs. Despite the clear picture testing his senses, Dorian still half-hoped for those to be fake, painted clay mould or something. He learned they weren't fake as soon as he felt the eerie smoothness under his fingers.

"What in Maker's name is that?", Dorian called. Pentaghast couldn't lift her eyes.

"These are called oculara. Some time ago, we started locating these in small camps around the Hinterlands. We also found discarded notes describing how they work. The light that reflects in the... lenses... lets us locate mysterious stone shards emanating with magical power. And now, we've learned that each of these skulls comes from a Tranquil."

“Every ocularum is made of a skull of a Tranquil?”

“I had wondered where they have gone. I should have looked harder", Pentaghast said.

“But... what part of Venatori's sick plan requires prepared skulls?”

“We found this journal”, Pentaghast thrashed a book against one of the crates in shack's narrow vestibule. “It describes… the ritual.”

“There was a ritual?”, Dorian snapped. “They sacrificed these Tranquil to -”

“Just read it”, Cassandra drawled. Dorian moved the heavy leather-bound cover and a few sheets of fine goatskin parchment.

> Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards...

They needed to find something important using these shards, obviously. In order to do it, they needed skulls channelling energy from the Fade to illuminate magic dwelling in these shards. The process required, as far as Dorian understood, opening Tranquil's energetic aura through forced possession so it could also absorb the feeble, ancient traces of energy from the shards. The Venatori used a sledgehammer to crack a nut, and Dorian didn't want to think what made the nut worth all the risk and effort, not to mention the basic moral restraint. And that insistence on _precision_ , Maker's breath. Just the thought threatened to squeeze his dinner back out. No, such plans weren’t made by beings endowed with souls by the Maker. Something must have used Alexius’s despair to make him succumb, ignore all the evil in which he took part.

"Now, here's the whole shack of those Oculara with guidelines how to createthem. There was nothing we could do. We wouldn't even know where to start looking", Cassandra's voice quivered with anger. "Could blood magic have done it? Forced a demon to possess a Tranquil? All the time, I have firmly believed that the Rite of Tranquility cannot be overrun or cancelled out.”

“I have no idea and I don’t want to find out”, Dorian spat out.

"I understand", she nodded. “I only hope that the rebel mages did _not_ know about this.”

“Do you suggest they didn’t _just_ sell themselves to Alexius, which was idiotic enough, but also handed their Tranquil on a silver plate to a kettle of blood mage vultures?”

“When the rebellion broke out, the Tranquil became a liability. Those from the Fereldan Circle Tower were left on their own, thrown to the demons. I know nothing about those who followed other mages to Redcliffe. But when Alexius took over, he banished the Tranquil just like he banished the Chantry. He tricked everyone into thinking they would be useless for the Venatori”, Pentaghast clenched the handle of her sword. "Mages' inactivity in this situation is... disturbing." What great clemency did the dissolving Circle show towards the people it pledged to save and protect from the uncontrollability of their own powers... For a moment, Dorian felt almost like in his best days: beaten up and very, very nauseous.

“Let’s go back to the castle. The Herald needs to see it as well”, Pentaghast said.

Concealed with rags, the oculara were loaded on a boat, away from onlookers' eyes, and transported to the castle. All the Tranquil had ever got, being swept under the carpet as soon as their dignity was taken. Much as Dorian wanted to advocate for rebels’ rights, the affair proved their and unreliability at best. If they missed, turned a blind eye, or worse, gave silent permission to whatever the Venatori did right under their nose, how could they be anything more than a pack of cowardly minions accidentally let off the lead? He didn't want to see Enchanter Fiona's face when she was to confront the revelation. Nor King Alistair's, nor Tevinter Archon's.

Even canine sculptures in the castle seemed to aim at Dorian's throat when he carried the evidence to Castle's throne room. The Herald was being instructed about something by Lady Josephine when Cassandra called her to the side and showed her the azure-eyed pillar of disgrace.

“We found a proof the oculara are made by the Venatori”, the Seeker said. “How they were made is… There is no way to convey it in a gentle manner. These are skulls of the Tranquil. Obtained most likely by means of the foulest blood magic, so they could illuminate these shards we keep finding.”

“It’s all written down. Alexius's orders and recommendations”, Dorian added. The truth dragged him along into a dark alley to tan his hide and spit back out into a slum gutter. From now on, it was irrelevant whether Alexius was a wanton leader of the Venatori or just their tool.

Both ladies fell speechless. The Herald approached the window slowly, with her eyes stuck in the ground, and took her silken gloves off.

"Do those Chantries and Circles of you shemlen mean a thing?", she hissed after a while. "So weak and frightened when you lose your herd. You learned to survive by giving your weakest to the predators. When you get together to defend something, it's really every man for himself." And demons took the hindmost, as in an old saying? Probably. Maker, what a mess.

"I... wish I could prove otherwise", Pentaghast faltered. "There is no telling how far the Venatori can go."

"Then we should start doing something about the Venatori as soon as possible", Lavellan replied. "Like, find every ocularum and every shard, and protect whatever they guide. And Alexius will have to repent."

"There has never been a different plan", Pentaghast nodded. "We all have a right to be... crushed." Alexius had to repent, whatever repentance meant in those circumstances. Dorian could as well have said goodbye, unless the people who were to judge his old master considered death _too_ merciful.

So, when the evening arrived, he sat behind the assigned table in his tunic and tabard transformed into a half-decent doublet, greeting flagons of wine that were most likely to become his friends throughout the evening. The Redcliffe throne room was decorated with banners and curtains, unsuspecting of what it could still face within the year to come. The Court was directed to the right side, the Inquisition to the left. Dorian had a view on King's place from a fairly small distance, which meant they cared to admit him somewhat more importance than an exotic curiosity _._ Naturally, the evening can't have happened without the dwarven interloper. Suddenly, Dorian's plan to keep a straight face throughout the night paled like apostate Solas's scalp after the evening bath time.

"I slowly start believing in some sort of conspiracy... whenever I promise myself to get legitimately drunk in my own company, _you_ appear", Dorian said.

"I have a special unwanted chaperone sense", the dwarf nodded. "And I happen to be King's acquaintance." Not only did Tethras brag about knowing King Alistair in person, but also he supposedly was the one who introduced the ruler of Ferelden to Maevaris Tilani. However the three of them could have _ever_ met under the vibrant domes of Quarinus, Dorian left to dwarf's vivid imagination. But that wasn't the end of outrageously convenient coincidences: according to the dwarf, the King also met the new Arishok in person, as they fought the Blight together when the latter was still a sten sent to the South for espial.

"That one's absolutely true! Ask Sister Nightingale", the dwarf swore. "Hero of Ferelden's crew must have been born under a lucky star."

"I'll believe as soon as Leliana becomes the next Divine to complete the collection", Dorian snorted.

"I could take bets. Twenty sovereigns?", Tethras faked a begging grin.

"On Leliana becoming the Divine? Or the truthfulness of your story?", Dorian scoffed.

"Twenty gold that they'll elect Nightingale", Varric teased. Dorian caressed his mustache a bit, calculated something deep within his mind and agreed, though not too eagerly. All the rumours he had heard about the spymaster indicated the contrary. Still an ordinary sister within Chantry's ranks, an ardent defender of elves, a scholar of apocrypha and an alleged visionary prophet – how was a person so untypical supposed to take the Sunburst Throne while there was a tumult of flawlessly pious Revered Mothers eager to imitate Justinia's legendary good nature? Even if Dorian slipped up on that bet, he had lived with empty pockets for so long that the prospect of regular savings caused him some inexplicable discomfort.

"Very well. But don't get your hopes up, dwarf. Nugs will fly before the Chantry promotes Leliana."

"Always nice doin' business", Varric chirped when they shook hands.

Dorian didn't even inquire what part Maevaris played in King's endeavours, if only was Varric telling the truth. When it came to the upper crust of Tevinter nobility, the last two decades would be remembered as the golden age of Aurelian Titus, a magister from nowhere, former Archon Davan's insidious pet terrorizing the entire Imperium with his fanatics. He made Archon Radonis go to earth and pre-emptively send assassins out for months. He gave the Black Divine gastric ulcers, nearly winning the propaganda war on his way to bring the Old God cults back. And then, the King of Ferelden popped up alongside with Maevaris and lord Tethras, and Titus's lucky streak suddenly ended. Another unbelievable convenience. Perhaps that was the milieu in which the Venatori emerged? Frankly, all the undergrounds cults in Tevinter resolved around the Old Gods in one way or another, thus appearing all the same to an average citizen brought up in the spirit of superficial andrastianism.

Poor Herald, she sat right next to the biggest fish. Admittedly, she was still surrounded by advisors who probably did all the talking in her stead. However, much as she had seen a lot more than anyone else, she was still a greenhorn in the game, a curiosity for the old spongers. Luckily, King Alistair was known of familiarity and a rather loose approach to all the diplomatic dullness.

Around midnight, when everyone rested after enormous amounts of Fereldan stew pie (Dorian couldn't marvel enough at the mere combination), Lady Josephine surprised anyone with an announcement that a dedicated lyrium merchant prepared a little firework display on the old settlement lakeshore. Dorian walked out wrapped in a thick fur coat. The courtyard had been already struck with early ground frost that turned the breath into milky puffs. The Breach had even changed the night sky: it concealed the Southern constellations under a misty teal shroud, gathering dense clouds around its crater. Another toast pealed out, accompanied by laughter and best wishes on Satinalia. All those people blissfully unaware of what had happened behind the curtains... When he gazed upon tiny sparks glimmering in all the colours, against the Breach ever-glowing on the Western horizon and the calm surface of Lake Calenhad, he was approached by no-one else than the Herald.

"Tired of sitting up straight for the entire evening?", he asked, faking a smile.

"It's a bit odd. There's so much talking but it's all small talk. Pretty much about nothing. I've just heard an epic tale of the mabari that accompanied King Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden in their adventures."

"It's one of the _anna_ , the greatest holidays. During parties like these, heavy topics aren't too welcome. The guests are usually fed up with politics just from their daily work. Deals and alliances are sealed during private banquets", he explained.

"True enough. Tomorrow there will be only the heavy topics", she sighed. "How's the feast? Have you managed to let yourself go a bit... regardless of what you've confronted?"

"The evening's quite decent. If there's always food and wine on the table and the minstrels aren't too pushy, you can say you've survived the night. I'm neatly surprised we could afford the whole firework trick."

"How do they make these prancing embers? Is this some sort of human magic?"

"Technology, more likely. I suppose they mix selected ores with a pinch of lyrium powder, pack it together and set the thing on fire. The projectile shoots out into the sky. Magic could do the trick as well. Back home, the sky on the Satinalia night doesn't cease to illuminate with magical missiles until daybreak."

"I don't know too much about these andrastian holidays. Do the Satinalia differ much around the world?"

"In the Impierum, it's slightly more... gaudy. Brothels open for free overnight, templars in skimpy clothing wrestling in tubs filled with grapes..."

"You're joking!", she chuckled.

"All true", Dorian twirled his mustache.

"Would you like me to introduce you to the King while we have the opportunity?", Lavellan asked.

"He _still_ hasn't heard about me?", Dorian trotted behind as she pulled his arm through the crowd. At last, he got to see King Alistair: the tall man of robust warrior's physique, quite eye-catching for a Fereldan, gifted with thick blonde-red hair, strong cheekbones and a straight pointy nose. When Dorian bowed and scraped his leg in a courtly gesture, the King sized him up with his astute stare.

"A Tevinter going to the end of the world to fight his own fellow countrymen... The historians would call it with one of those pompous words. Like __audacity_. _ Yes, audacity sounds sooo Tevinter", the King said with a cynical refrain.

"Our enemies dared to threaten the whole world, your Majesty. In the face of such danger, national ties and animosities should turn secondary."

"Apparently, that isn't obvious to everyone. Let's hope the South will only applaud your attitude and welcome you among its defenders."

"Thank you, your Highness", Dorian nearly stuck his nose between his knees. The higher the highness, the lower the bow, as Mother always said.

"The evening's lovely, my Ladies and Lords, but I'm going to retire a bit earlier. I must face tomorrow with a fresh mind... and great reserves of patience", King Alistair and the Arl bowed the Herald and her advisors goodnight. Which meant that the feast in overall was coming to an end. Ladies Josephine and Leliana stayed a little longer, wondering if the King would be content. When Dorian embraced the feather quilt in his chamber, his head only hummed with soft dizziness.

The negotiations... how absurd it sounded when it was certain that one side arguably deserved not to be given a voice. The _talks_ were held in confidentiality, involving the Fereldan authorities, decision-makers from the Inquisition, the former Grand Enchanter Fiona and Revered Mother Eglantine. In the throne room, where Alexius had had his little fortress not so long ago, two long tables stayed faithful to their allegiances from the previous evening. As a person directly involved in the operations, Dorian was allowed to sit in the back rows behind the stone columns, among the audience consisting of all sorts of witnesses and injured parties: Redcliffe inhabitants, selected rebel mages, Chantry sisters and Inquisition scouts. King Alistair made his tone categorical from the start.

"The number of trespasses committed by magister Alexius's soldiers in the entire arling demand a separate trial, for which I sadly have to wait until the Magisterium decide whether they want us to extradite him. So, let me address the issue that convinced me to march on Redcliffe in the first place. Grand Enchanter", he called with a jeering tone which was either a sign of his anger or simply a part of his charm, "Imagine how surprised I was to learn you'd given Redcliffe Castle away to a Tevinter magister. Especially since I'm fairly sure Redcliffe belongs to Arl Teagan."

"Your Majesty, we never intended-"

"I _know_ what you intended", the King cut the Grand Enchanter off. "It's not my fault that you lose your minds at the very mention of the Templar Order. I wanted to help you, but you've made it impossible. And trust me, considering magister's crime against the people of the Hinterlands, the alliance you made under my nose paints you in a really, _really_ bad light. You ensconced in the castle and gave the Tevinters a free hand. What did they do once given a free hand? Banishment of Redcliffe's lawful inhabitants", the King cast parchments with reports on the floor ahead. "Unauthorised arrangement of magical apparatus. In the wild. Significant increase in numbers of rifts and demons. Finally, the pursuit and murder of the Tranquil. In cold blood, as proven by the existence of these devices", the King pointed at an ocularum dragged along to see justice with its cold, gem eyes. When murmurs of indignation ruffled all over the throne room, King Alistair took a few breaths to cool down. For a minor bunch of extremists, the Venatori fit the recognisable Tevinter spirit too well. How long would it take for the good people to shatter that mask, change the image...

"I could consider it all a side effect of your reckless choice and insist to judge you for complicity. But on this day, you shall know my mercy", King Alistair carried on. "You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden. Arl Teagan will return to his rightful holdings and receive any amends he deems adequate. That is my final word."

"In the days to come, I shall listen to every person harmed by magister's people during my absence", Arl Teagan added.

"But, your Highness, we have hundreds who need protection. Where will we go?", Enchanter Fiona asked. That was a rather bold question for a person who had just turned from chooser to beggar. Both Hands of the divine authority rose.

"Your Majesty, Grand Enchanter", sister Leliana spoke with her sweet soprano, "It was our mission of closing the Breach and defeating its perpetrators that brought us to Redcliffe in search of mages' help. Regardless of rebellion's responsibility, we wish to secure this arrangement."

"You've got your answer", the King addressed Fiona. "Let's listen to Inquisition's statement. What are your terms?"

"Hopefully better than what Alexius gave them", Dorian muttered under his breath. "The Inquisition _is_ better than that, yes?"

"Your majesty", Seeker Cassandra took her turn. Leliana hid her face deep within the hood of her robe. "No matter how strongly some of us wish to give the mages the benefit of the doubt and see them exercise the freedom they fought for with such zeal, the negligence that took place in Redcliffe during their stay cannot be disdained. Hereby we offer to conscript the mages to the Inquisition as its prisoners. The closing of the Breach will be the test of their independence. Should the mages prove their trustworthiness, the terms of conscription are likely to change in their favour."

"Then, I wish the Inquisition all the best. I'd like Redcliffe back to normal by sundown tomorrow", the King replied.

"Then we have no choice but to surrender", Fiona replied. "I assure the Breach will be closed. We must do whatever we can to restore peace to a world that sorely needs it."

"In that case, we plead for free access to land between Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes to expand Inquisition's headquarters and further secure the explosion site", Pentaghast said.

"Access granted. Whatever helps you fulfill your purpose", the King concluded. He knocked with his sceptre, the crowd melted away leaving painful jabber in Dorian's ears. Members of the Inquisition gathered in a circle to share their dilemmas and impressions.

"They have suffered enough! Why continue to mistreat them?", Leliana cried out.

"The situation with mages is unstable and likely to deteriorate, just as the Circles did", Josephine prophesied.

"I have a feeling I'll regret this", Lavellan moaned. "But these mages seized Redcliffe, threw its own people out, allied with the Venatori..."

"While this certainly buys us public approval, I worry it won't last. The mages will rebel again", Lady Montyliet said.

"I am sorry. I had no better solution to offer. I don't suppose you have one?", Cassandra asked with a somewhat smug grimace. "The sole point of Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid, and that was accomplished."

"The voice of pragmatism speaks!", Dorian intervened. "And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments."

"Don't even try to tell me _you're_ happy with the outcome", Leliana scoffed at him.

"Happy? By no means. You've put the collar back on mages' necks expecting them to act _as if_ they were unrestricted. I'd love to see how that works out", Dorian smirked. "But in spite of my personal standards of civility, I must agree that the extent of carelessness we've all seen is unforgivable. Especially if the mages have so much to prove."

"Enough for now. We need to move out by tomorrow evening as well. All that matters now is the Breach", Cassandra cut the discussion.

Deep inside, Dorian half-hoped there would be a chance to throw a few oxymorons in the faces of the self-righteous Southerners. Free mages! Cows milking farmers! Elves running Halamshiral! Gentle, peace-loving Qunari! Memories from the future! Tevinters saving the world from destruction! No surprise the family gardener used to call Dorian Zazikel's litter. But even stirred up by the defiant spirit of Satinalia, he couldn't agree that the Breach was all that mattered. Not since Alexius and Felix were brought back to Haven behind the steel bars of a prison carriage. If he tried to talk to the Herald or anyone else, persuade them to refrain from useless populist punishment and force Alexius to cooperate, would they have listened?


	11. 11. Drawing circles and spirals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mages plan to close the Breach and make it happen. Dorian makes some new acquaintances while dreaming about magical academies in the South.

The next war council would include the greatest magical minds under the banner of the Inquisition. The faculty couldn't do without Solas the apostate and, naturally, without the most famous and skillfull Tevinter mage dwelling in the South. Mages' quarters were rising on the other lake shore, announced by echoing calls and the blare of logging. Their arrival made Commander Cullen seriously doubt his manpower. People outdistanced each other in ideas how to employ the mages: from research, cooking and herbalism to healing in the battlefront and a special Hinterland night watch. One could hear more and more voices complaining that the Inquisition needed a different place to expand.

One morning in the Chantry corridors, The Enchanter of Orlais warned the Herald there would be _incidents_. Dorian got a funny feeling that he was listening to a self-fulfilling prophecy. "Magic is dangerous just as fire is dangerous", she preached. As far as Dorian was concerned, a tiny fire was sometimes necessary to keep the soul from becoming a stale bog. Didn't the Chant include a funny line about fire being the stuff of Maker's souls? In that case, it was just as dangerous as everything else that mattered.

As soon as the Herald departed to her duties, a thunder-like ascertainment turned Dorian back from the path to apprentice Minaeve's station:

"Our ally from Tevinter."

"That... is correct", he turned around.

"A real crown jewel of Imperial aristocracy shining among these field stones. How unheard of", the Enchanter chirped, swaggering in front of him in a sweeping lace robe and Orlesian high heels. Tall and glamorous, adding the horn-like hennin to the picture. People in the South were bigger in general, some elves Dorian's size, and he slowly got used to looking upwards whenever he talked to someone. How could he complain being surrounded by six-foot-tall, broad-chested men? And the Enchanter, she made her presence felt with the sole knocking of these shoes.

"Are you testing my vanity, Lady Enchanter?", he half-smiled with a polite bow.

"I wonder what extent of decadence in Tevinter forces its own nobility to leave their nest. Not that it was unpredictable, looking how your government fosters weak, unbuilt characters easily tempted by immoral crafts. But, since you're here, you must understand that very well. Is it true you've been investigating the Breach of your own accord?" Dorian swallowed the bile and engaged in trained politeness.

"That's correct. I've utilised some of magister Alexius's tools and drafts to determine the precise connection between his amulet and the Breach."

"Laudable dedication. Now that you've gained certain... reinforcements, I hope you'll have the opportunity to share the results", she wove a leisurely melody.

"Yes, I do hope the impending assembly allows me so", he bowed slightly. She smiled with her lips but her dark eyes still scrutinized him.

"With such great battles ahead, a sense of community is indispensable. Let us hope that Inquisition's new _guests_ will share the view", she swung away.

The adequacy didn't make the criticism bother him any less. A country fostering weak, unbuilt characters... as if there was an easy recipe for strength and virtue. Like, living one's life slammed shut within a single frame of mind, to never really exercise the heaviness of real choice. Of course, the one who took the burden of doubt and the risk of failure must have appeared inept in the face of self-righteous know-it-alls. In that matter, the Altus and the Southern Circles were quite much alike. Only the Tevinter sort of prison was built from the absurd, multi-faceted morality and a ruthless race for power. In any case, confusion was unforgivable and proneness to mistake made you the source of all evil. In any case, a mage must have proven a better person than anyone else merely to be accepted. Those from Tevinter and the South could get along like sheep from two different pens squabbling whose herdsman was doing their job worse. Like the majority of Fiona's mages who seemed to feel _relieved_ to be penned in again. Despite all the surges towards freedom, their old attitudes returned with the sheepdogs. Which raised a question: was there any use helping, apart from the principles? At least the principles comprised a reasonable guideline.

Tranquils' reports about the Breach rock and demon carcasses were a minor addition to Dorian's collection of sources. The greatest accomplishments had been made in the chilling cold mornings, with shady soreness languishing like an untreated cold, against three layers of clothing close to his delicate regions. He had been breaking down Alexius's sigils on the amulet, a brilliant example of synergistic engraving. The ground-breaking method had been introduced to refine Tevinter enchanting recently, with just one disadvantage: the more inscriptions were included in one piece of work, the higher the chance of generating completely new unpredictable scripts, random anomalies. Dorian didn't envy himself the patience needed to locate the most important sigil: the one that connected all the magic to its source, the energetic signature of the Breach. Even _he_ wouldn't manage it alone, so he got a chance to gather a real research team. Like in the good old times in Minrathous. Yes, an assembly of intelligent, dedicated people sharing knowledge for the common cause – that would be a real prelude to restoring Southern mages' rights, to create an academy like the ones back home.

By the lake, a bald head glared with reflected sunshine. How would Solas like the idea? The apostate, whose robes usually looked as if made from thrown-away fabric scraps sewn to a dirty jute sack, sat on the lake pier with bowls of fresh egg paint. Indeed, all that outfit needed was making its misery more colourful. The elf hummed under his breath and scratched something on a thin wooden board.

"Solas, is it? I don't suppose we've talked one-to-one yet", Dorian said.

"No, we haven't", Solas turned around.

"Id like to inform you we're both invited to the next war council."

"As the token opposition of strange exhibits?", Solas snorted. "I've no need to appease them."

"Our voice can make a difference, hopefully. I've looked into Alexius's amulet and believe I have learned something about the way it interacted with the Breach. Now that the Inquisition has so many mages, it should be easier to decipher scripts from the amulet."

"Hm. That would be quite a detour, as far as the Breach is concerned. If only it wasn't so unstable, the Temple would give my its dreams on the plate." So, studies done without the privilege of direct insights appeared a detour? Well, of course. One who could grasp everything clearly in their dreams must have considered laborious, systematic approaches wasteful. Such must have been a hedge apostate lot. A natural talent unpolished by formal education often left people overly confident in themselves and picky towards those who had a longer way to come. One of the things that made Dorian himself somewhat insufferable when he was younger.

Dorian crouched on the pier, watching Solas's hand leave quick, short strokes on the board. Faint contours sketched on the wood showed a soaring, tower-like building embraced by tree branches. The way Solas marked it with paint resembled golden scales of some ancient sea creature, swimming in smudges of white and dirty green-ish. Admittedly, an entirely novel style of artwork. The elf wrinkled his droopy nose, crossed by a broad strip of ruddy blush, sun blemishes and freckles.

"Quite a pastime. It must require great patience", Dorian said. The elf raised a brow at his curiosity. Have they _all_ been unaccustomed with common friendliness?

"It is the most satisfying way to keep a record of one's dreams and products of imagination. To store them fresh, unaltered by the verbose hustle in your mind which tends to alter the vision uninvited."

"So, you study the spiritual realm mainly through observation?"

"Indeed. The realm of spirits is no easy subject. To commune with all the wonders of the Fade, one needs great self-containment. A mage who travels the Fade with an apprehensive, controlling attitude grants it the threatening shape", Solas matched his speech with swift movements of his hand. "It is a great challenge to back away and observe the Fade exactly as it wishes to show. Sadly, the idea of minimizing one's presence and opening up to the spirits passing by would frighten or enrage most mages of this place. They've come to believe it is their incarceration and selective ignorance that lets them strengthen their spirit. Sadly, the last decision of the Council shows that a liberating perspective is unwelcome."

"Things can still work out for the better. Since I've already done _something_ for the cause, I'm not going to sit back while I can help the mages make a name for themselves."

"Let's these fruits of labour, then. And hope that the entire gathering is as good as Seeker Cassandra's word."

At least there was no need to ask why the man was all ratty. The uncertain future under Pentaghast's custody, constant supervision an apostate can't have been used to, the pervasive pressure to succeed in closing the Breach... Dorian paced back and forth between the Penitents' Crossing and the lake, passing Harding's scout squad returning for resupply. The anticipation before the council made him so restless he couldn't touch the dinner.

The war table was surrounded tightly, welcoming more debaters than usually. Old plans of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and new sketches of the explosion site were spread in the middle. Commander Cullen drew marks on the parchment with thin coal sticks.

"The summit is narrow as it is. The ruins, Fade rocks and the red lyrium vein make it even harder to navigate. We'll have to invest in quality, not in quantity", the Commander said. "In this battle, _you_ are our forces. I need you to decide whom, and in what numbers, we're going to send to close the Breach."

"Since we were brought here specifically to help, I'd like to know exactly what we're dealing with what my people are expected to do", Enchanter Fiona said.

"No magic known to us, human or elven, can deal with that danger. Whatever we settle is a leap of faith", Solas said.

"Our mission has two objectives. Possibly a third, and a few subsections", Dorian said. "First, to lead the Breach into collapse. Second, to empower Herald's Mark so she can use it against the weakened Breach. Then, if anybody in this room has a slightest idea how to do it, stabilize the Veil in the area to avoid future ruptures. So, first and foremost, we need to prepare the explosion site for a massive incantation."

"That means the debris around the Breach cleared out so we can distribute focus pylons", Vivienne intervened. "One group of mages must encircle the Breach and secure the area with barriers so the others don't harm each other. Preferably protected by templars. If anything goes terribly wrong, we must nullify as much energy as possible."

"The more varying forces we introduce, the more unstable our setup. Mages will be more than enough. Those from the Circles are uniform in their training and techniques. That makes the matters of security less worrying", Solas rebutted.

"I agree with Solas. We aren't making vegetable soup", Dorian said. "What we need in the end isn't simply power of dozens of mages channelled into Herald's mark. That could get everybody killed with recoil, at best", Dorian said. "When Herald's Mark closes the small rifts, it appears to redirect rift's own energy backwards. Normally, a rift spews pieces of the Fade out. It is uncertain why, by principle, the Fade intrudes into the physical realm spontaneously rather than the other way around. At any rate, we must work against that law, and that is hardly precedented in a way we could _and_ should reproduce. What we have is the Mark. It creates a pulse that pushes the Fade substance away and re-establishes the Veil in a particular spot. It's quite like stitching a hole in a wineskin while the liquid is still pouring out. It won't be air-tight any more, but we can lessen the flow."

"The last time I tried, the Mark alone couldn't make it against the Breach", the Herald said. "It wasn't closed entirely, bleeding visions into the world – or so I was told. I re-opened it but it didn't close again."

"If my observations were accurate, last time the Herald tried to close the Breach the threads coming from the Mark were too thin, to use your analogy", Solas replied. "The expansion of the Breach appears hindered, but it is still open and active."

"I understand that the Mark is the only certainty in this puzzle", Vivienne frowned. "But did you really expect to succeed leaving the task to the Herald alone?"

"Right after the Breach exploded, we tried everything we could", Pentaghast answered. "Thank the Maker, we're allowed to make another attempt."

"At any rate, this time we need to make our fabric thicker", Dorian scratched his chin. "That might be very bad news, depending if we're able to use a certain trick. My investigation has shown that Alexius's amulet twisted the temporal dimension of reality using a sophisticated spiral, a massive coil of condensed energy. Alexius used several ancient scripts shaping energy into spiralling vortices. Such spells have been forbidden since the Imperium of old, in case somebody wanted to open a doorway to the Fade once again. What was another point of the prohibition, one can't simply stabilize a portal to the Fade _using_ the Fade. These spells must have required a different source of power, most likely auxiliary blood magic. Thankfully, the Inquisition has the Mark. We could try to twist our force around the Herald, make an opposing vortex strong enough to drive a wedge into the Breach."

"A bold concept. Even for a skilled spellcaster", Vivienne raised a brow. "But I can see it happen."

"Herald's Mark alone is a needle, and together we can patch the Breach up. That sounds like a plan", Enchanter Fiona nodded. "But since such extensive spells aren't practised any more, I'd like to request a dry run before we go to the summit."

"I'm glad this is going somewhere. What about the third agenda point?", Dorian asked.

"Rebuilding the Veil is a long and strenuous process. My studies led me to traces of ancient elven artifacts that can measure the Veil. With some modifications, these might be used to strengthen the boundary between the realms where it is most vulnerable", Solas said. "But this task has to wait until the Breach disrupts the field no more."

"We will look for those artifacts as soon as this is over", the Herald nodded.

"How many people do we need then, all things considered?", Fiona asked.

"Depends on the power of the mages involved. According to our myths, the ones who entered the Fade physically were seven ancient dreamers, magisters of great power. Luckily, we do not need to cross the Breach physically, but neither do we have ancient magisters at our disposal. I'd say about twenty mages with the greatest focus we can afford, and another twenty to stabilize the site while we help the Herald. That includes me and, hopefully, everyone else present here."

"Agreed. This isn't the time to save our resources", Enchanter Vivienne nodded.

"You have me and my best people", Fiona added.

"Give me a day to clear the site out", Commander Cullen thrust a dagger into an ink spot that marked the Breach on the old Temple plans. "Prepare well, and good luck on the summit. Let it be our last attempt."

The countdown day buried Haven in silence. Dorian was exercising by the lake to kill time. Having his energetic channels clogged during intense spellcasting could result in painful side effects. Besides, he could half-hope someone nice would watch him flex and stretch out his well-fed muscles.

Next day, the best of them stood against the Breach, like in the theatre back home: the larger group surrounded the scene with a circle, lifting barriers above the Temple. The smaller group, the choir, backed their leading actor up, standing among the remains of arcades and balconies. Even the lighting effects matched. Herald's mark reacted with its source, pulsing with veins of light.

"Focus past the Herald and channel your force. Let her will draw from you!", Solas called out before gathering a large ball of light around him.

"Let my bollocks rest in a flower chaplet", Dorian muttered under his breath. The apostate found an excellent moment for inspiring rhetoric. As soon as Lavellan moved ahead, tiny stones and pieces of rubble trembled in the rhythm of the Breach. "This will be amusing", Dorian's mouth twisted into a swashbuckler's smile. He slid one leg forward, braced against the ground and held the staff horizontally, surrounding himself with a muddle of energies.

"Draw back!", Vivienne shouted from the remaining temple balcony where she overlooked the group that secured the workspace. "Do not touch the Breach yet! The barriers are still leaking!"

"We need to keep all the energy _inside_ the barriers! Otherwise, we're wasting time", Dorian called. The Herald stepped a few backs away, holding her marked hand back as if it wanted to act on its own. Staff crystals glowed and joined through lightning blue threads. As soon as Dorian established connection, thousands of pins and needles went through his arms.

"I can see it clearly now. The orb we created is safe, we can begin", Solas shouted.

"Now!", Vivienne gave her war cry.

" _Tantum semel deficit fortuna_ ", Dorian said under his breath.

The Veil in their scope started bending and whirling, wrapping the mages in arcs of focused energy. Their joined force slithered towards the Breach in a uniform spiral pattern, a perfectly symmetrical drawing emerging on the Temple ground. As soon as Lavellan's mark touched the ribbon appendages of the Breach, she was grasped into a column of light. The stones floating around freely started circling around the Breach, nuzzling the barrier that protected the summit. Dorian's ears filled with ringing and humming of the ruptured Veil. Such a large cluster of auras pushing through... it felt like wrestling with an invisible golem. But they could see the effects. Their coil made its way upwards, dispelling the pylon of green. Finally, the myriad of lights expanded and swallowed them all, sweeping the mages off their feet. Dorian braced against his staff and lowered on his knees.

The loud concert in his head replaced all sounds on the outside. Lady Cassandra and Solas ran towards the Herald who knelt where the Breach used to spread its long arms. There was just a shattered column of the temple, and a misty contour of the protective barrier dissolving. The last lights from the Breach were subsiding upwards, leaving a still crevice across the sky. The mages were picking themselves up and resting against stones and rubble. Dorian bestirred to move on as well, but he lost the ground under his staff and got a bit weak at the knees. Should have paid more attention during spiritual shielding courses. As soon as the world rotated uncontrollably, someone held him arm in arm. For all that mattered, the Herald wobbled towards the exit as well, supported by Lady Seeker. She wasn't doing any worse than the others.

"Try to stand. Drink this", someone said from above. "Elfroot, rashvine and prophet's laurel. Peppermint leaves and ginger to improve the taste. Puts you back on your feet in no-time." There was a pale elven woman, no tattoos on her face, round brown eyes and a nose bridge broad even for her kin. She put a vial of yellowish-green fluid right in his hand.

"Ah, just got a tad dizzy, but I appreciate the kindness", he replied, sitting up on the ground and shaking his shoulders off. His muscles were stiff. That was one exhausting exercise.

"Isn't that interesting", he pointed at elf's hands. In fact, their _both_ hands and wrists were covered in delicate lightning-like markings, like fresh whip scars or stripweed burns. "The resistance must have been enormous."

"Does it hurt?", the woman asked. "I still feel the tingling."

"Not right now. But tomorrow it might be too late for this sort of questions", Dorian grunted, picking himself up.

"It's less dramatic than it looks. We've succeeded."

Even with the ginger potion spreading pleasant warmth across his stomach, Dorian's legs followed mind's orders with a greater difficulty than expected. Each step had a ball and chain attached. Under different circumstances, he would have sworn he was drunk into a stupor. Luckily, the mages could take all the time they needed to get back to Haven.

"To whom I owe the favour?", he asked.

"Ranalle Valhana from Gwaren, previously a Circle mage."

"Dorian of House Pavus, originally from Tevinter, recently of the Inquisition."

"You're _the_ Tevinter?" He let the question in one ear and out the other. All he wanted was a hot bath, massage with relaxing herbal salves and a thick feather-bed. Right behind the corner, Adan the alchemist stood on a carriage and handed out energizing potions, bread and thin wine.

"Please don't swarm. If you haven't got a heart stroke by now, you'll be fine. Don't sit or lie down until more carriages arrive, or you get dizzy and fail to stand up again. Healers will treat the burns back in Haven. Stay calm, there's enough potions for everyone", the jaded apothecary called. Dorian wasn't exactly hungry, but he chewed and chugged, sitting on a wall piece, hoping to regain more strength. Lady Ranalle hung around, offering to add spice to everything they received and telling how she arrived in the Circle of Ferelden.

"Our family ran from the Blight. The teyrnir was ruled by Loghain Mac Tir at the time, if you get the picture. We were lucky enough to wait the Blight out in Alamar. That's the island in the Northeast. After the Blight, Highever was looking for new settlers. That's where my family stayed. They saw me play with magic when I was eleven. First Enchanter Irving was taking the apprentices in again. It was a mess at first. Have you heard Circle's history? During the Blight, it got overrun by demons and abominations. All summoned by a possessed mage. The Hero of Ferelden managed to save many mages, including the First Enchanter. But the Circle had been decimated anyway. For the first few years it was terrible. So empty. Then, the woman from Orzammar came to study. A real dwarf. Can you imagine? She scoured all the library stock about enchanting and runes. Our Formari made us filthy rich when she was around. Then she claimed that she needed to work without the Chantry bending her ear and returned home to found a Circle subsidiary in Orzammar..."

At a time like this, any story would go. Sensing every bone in one's own body was a rather strange way to feel alive. But maybe it would only be better from now on. In the brave new world without the Breach.

"... Then it got creepy again. First Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Gregoir went to these large Conclaves that started the war. And it happened. The Circles were no more. We kept hiding in the Hinterlands until Grand Enchanter Fiona arrived to Redcliffe. The Arl promised us asylum until the next Conclave. But as soon as it started, the sky blew up. A rumour spread around that they would blame us. People started killing each other in the fields again. Then, the Tevinters arrived and said: it's either us or the templars. In Tevinter, the mages would have some rights at least. Or so Fiona thought", Ranalle sighed. "I'm glad it's all over. We've proven something, right? We're a part of the Inquisition."

So did Dorian hope.

 


	12. The real ending only comes once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of celebrating their triumph, the Inquisition marches for survival after a battle that turned Haven to ashes. Dorian has thoughts and he voices them to the miraculously saved Herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : mildly graphic medical descriptions/ procedures

Thinking of Inquisition's triumph, he didn't quite mean Haven scorched in a battle. Or its inhabitants brooding knee-deep in the snow. Or the leader of the hostile army conjuring an archdemon, in case someone hadn't already had their day ruined. Hello, is this the Inquisition? I was slightly concerned with your plans to, you know, terminate my menacing world-ending plot. - Why you could have announced your arrival or something, instead of that sudden assault on our little settlement. This unfortunate incident happens to disarray our work day quite significantly. - Oh, please forgive me. Manners maketh man and I, as you probably have figured out by now, identify mostly as _motherfucking millenium-old darkspawn_.

“I didn't quite expect a fairy-tale ending, but... a pimped ancient darkspawn with its own archdemon? Especially the darkspawn I saw killed by Hawke?", Varric hissed and cursed under his breath. Regardless what the dwarf had or had not seen, one name recurred in his bouquet of blasphemies: _Corypheus Silentii Chori_. The infamous priest of Dumat, one of the Seven who heard Old Gods’ whispers inviting them to the Fade.

It was supposed to be a story invented by the Southern Chantry to blame the Imperium for the Blights. But the figure that led the army was most certainly darkspawn, even if quite different than the average brood dwelling in the Deep Roads. It was a nine- or ten-foot-tall spectre, withered, riddled and half-dessicated. It gilded against fresh snow with some sort of dark mist at their feet. Whatever remained from its outfit - a tall headdress, pieces of a feather cape and the bottom of an ashen robe - it looked vaguely like engravings about the magisters of old, the original dreamers whose parentage legitimated each modern Altus family.

“What do you mean?”, Pentaghast tried to outshout the gale. “ _This_ is the creature you defeated with the Champion?!”

“The monster next to Raleigh Samson is ancient darkspawn?!”, Cullen accompanied her. "Maker have mercy on us all." In Dorian's humble opinion, the Maker was more likely laughing.

The hostile army comprised of excessively hunky templars jewelled with red lyrium. The man who stood by darkspawn's side wore a gleaming enchanted armour that made him taller than a Qunari. Some of his minions were so deformed they barely resembled humans. The star attraction of the evening was a red lyrium golem shooting projectiles from every orfice. Herald's defenders played a round of dodgeball willy-nilly when the monster was trying to smash Cullen's pet trebuchets. What was the only bright side of it all, the mages turned out unexpendable as a wall of ranged defence. As expected, Dorian's fellow countrymen knew best how to warm up the bleak Fereldan company. Yes, all the Inquisition needed to complete the picture of destruction was another Blight breaking out in the Frostbacks. And they weren't even halfway through the Dragon Age.

Behind them and ahead of them was the same gaping, dusting nothing. The basin below tumbled down and disappeared under a murky snowstorm. Dragon's howl following a dull reverberation of collapsing buildings confirmed that Haven was no more. The Herald must have released the last missile from a trebuchet causing another landslide. She insisted on distracting the army from Haven's evacuation through a passage showed by Chancellor Roderick, the belated reclaimed doubter. Alas, those who didn't rush to commit suicide seldom ended up hailed as heroes. Just as hundreds deprived of shelter, Dorian had to face the end of the world freezing to the bone, with his half-healed arms painted with bruises after another straining battle. The possibility that he wouldn't lose all his vigour and beauty to old age grew by a minute.

"What are the chances the Herald has made it through?", Pentaghast called against the whistling wind. At that point, Dorian stopped wondering how much colder it could get. He held on to the memory of the bath right after he returned from the summit, to the incense and herbal salves, getting softened an perfumed for all time in a steaming hot chamber.

"Maker himself throws the dice", Varric grunted. "And seems He's in a terrible mood today."

"We mustn't accuse Him of ill will, especially now. What hope would remain if His heart was tainted with malice?", the Nevarran looked back at the fuming mess left after Haven. No, this absolutely wasn't the end. They could have still hoped for the Maker to stick His finger out through the Breach and wag it at the Elder One. That would have shown them.

"We can't stop moving", Cullen hurried her up. "Our fires can still be seen. We're going to set up camp behind that ridge", the blonde pointed with his finger. Wandering in complete darkness against the nocturnal wind, with the wounded and civilians utterly unprepared for survival in high mountains. Brontos' backs bent down under the loads. The scouts needed to wait for any visibility. The list of their options after the defeat was as brief as their hour of triumph.

The advisers closed the procession, looking out for Herald's shape. They could only hope she found the path marked by fireplaces, broken wagons, empty food baskets and stained bandages. Hundreds of steps later that night, the howling snow-cloud descended, revealing a narrow pass ahead. From there, they could see anyone approaching from Haven in case the Elder One sent a chase to finish their work. Mages burnt a patch of land out until fallow ashen soil replaced the snow under their feet. The rough-and-ready hearth filled with kettles and cooking spits in no time, spreading the odour of heavy, dark smoke and roast meat. The tents were pitched, crates and wagons arranged into tables and beds, just so that they didn't have to rest on bare dirt. Maker only knew how they managed to save a few bottles of Satinalia spiced wine to hand out nicely heated.

Ranalle was pottering around helping Adan with potions. The senior alchemist was in great shape considering that he nearly got crushed by a cart filled with inflammable essences. Rumour had it that the swiftness of the skirmish group serving under that one-eyed Qunari leader reduced the casualties greatly. The mercenary, ever shirtless, as if testing his fate, was scraping healing poultice off of his shoulder and asking passers-by about their Boss.

The healers tried to save Chancellor Roderick. The chances were slim. High fever and a bloody blush on his face indicated that he took red lyrium shards into his wounds. The strange boy in a large Orlesian hat hadn't left the clerk's side since they first ran into each other in the heat of the battle. So far, no-one had had the time to wonder who the new unexpected ally was. The boy appeared banging at the gates of Haven just as the watchtower bells tolled alert, apparently having erased a small group of templar infiltrators on his way. He helped Roderick get into the Chantry and took care of him afterwards. The boy crouched in the tent and whispered words that could have come from Chancellor's own head; words of regret, prostration, dying man's delirium. Was he a hedge apostate endowed with a mind-controlling gift whose only fate in the Southern Circles could be the Rite of Tranquility?

Cullen and Pentaghast shouted something, watching the other side of the pass. Their message echoed from mouth to mouth, soon making the entire camp buzz like a beehive. She found them. Healers ran along with a stretcher and fur coats. Dorian amended the bandage on his wrists, wondering how stupid an idea it would be to sink his hands in the snow.

Mage healers crowded around the Herald, exchanging educated guesses. A dislocated shoulder, a broken rib, hypothermia, knocked about and bruised, could have been much worse. They carried her into the largest tent. The shoulder was relocated without the use of magic. The groan accompanying the procedure reminded Dorian why he never wanted healer's responsibility. How they dealt with the rest, he didn't need to know. The people of Haven sighed in relief and sent their thanks to the Maker. As soon as the most dreadful scenario was compromised, the advisers lost it and started arguing aloud. How could it happen? What now? Where are we going to go? We can't rebuild the Inquisition from nothing!

The Herald looked out of the tent with eyes bleary from painkilling potions. The Revered Mother from Jader, who first brought healers to the Hinterland Crossroads, held the elf under her arm until she sat comfortably by the hearth fire. An unlikely couple of an old andrastian hen and a Dalish elf argued about faith.

"The Maker works both in the moment and in how it is remembered", the Revered Mother preached. But the Maker hadn't worked miracles thus far, only accidents... at best. He abandoned His people for the sin whose story Dorian had to accept as true: the Tevinters brought doom upon their world for trying to debunk the Maker and replace Him with the Old Gods. They succeeded, in their own wicked way. The Blights were a constant threat. It was hard not to believe in a dragon flying by and burning your household. But there was no sign of the Maker any more. How events were remembered depended on two kinds of people: preachers with a clear agenda, like the Revered, and storytellers with a tendency to colour things up regardless, like Tethras.

"The struggle ahead is mine alone", Lavellan confirmed Dorian's downbeat prognosis. Funny how Mother Giselle's words sunk in even though there heroine made it clear that she hadn't sensed any divine intervention. Lavellan's unlikely survival, her uncontested connection with the Mark that couldn't be removed even by the forces of evil unbound... The Revered Mother was correct. The faith had found people. Whether or not the Herald believed, she was bound to work together with her own legend's inertia, with her people's singing about hope and perseverance.

Maybe Dorian should have been there, by Herald's side, to show that he cared and that he wasn't afraid of the difficult truth. But as long as the Revered stayed at Lavellan's side, as long as she sang her canticles and religious folk songs to cheer the people up, he'd rather have stayed away. A Tevinter trying to reach the Herald in the corridors, presenting a different standpoint that could influence her choices... Dorian had spent enough time as an outcast to see where this would lead.

Next morning, Solas took up Chantry's gauntlet and invited Lavellan for another lengthy chat. For a hermit, he had quite a timing to look after his alliances.

"She's so tough", Ranalle sighed when everyone sat to breakfast. "So much has happened, and she still has the strength to lead the scouts." Varric was writing what he called a chronicle, and what most likely consisted of overheard laments and dramatic observations. He wanted to send it to Redcliffe and Kirkwall if things went even more dire.

"Heroism kicks in quicker than Wycome wine", the dwarf nodded. "Don't tell the Herald to use both at once. That leads to tyranny... or broken appendages."

"The Herald will lead the scouts?", Dorian asked.

"Yes. With the other elf, the apostate."

"Do they hope to _find_ something in these mountains?", he scoffed.

"There are many things to find here. Avvar clans, sheltered villages, a place to build our own. Wild druffalos, a slumbering bear, maybe even dragon's lair", Ranalle enumerated.

"I said _find_ , not stumble upon a random menace", Dorian replied before the Circle mage felt too confident with rhyming. Becoming an insurgent druffalo-hunting tribe certainly wasn't Inquisition's long-term aim. Suddenly, they had to to tick so many steps on their preliminary list before saving the world... within a year. And thinking braver than the next stopover must have appeared insane. "We have no infrastructure!", Josephine's cries resounded in Dorian's head. What if their visit in the future only let them take a peek at the last page of a book that had already been written? What if they could only see the chaos unwind, no matter the struggle?

If people preferred to believe in the opposite, it had better have remained that way. The time had come for Dorian to go on his pilgrimage and pledge allegiance to a new myth as well. For the sake of what they had experienced together. For the life he'd probably have squandered otherwise.

Lavellan resided in a large octagonal tent with crimson draperies hanging from the tent frame above a fur bedding spread on a bronto cart. She gazed upon turquoise green fire burning in a hearth in the centre where she had sat with the elven apostate. The scent of herbal tea and candle smoke circled the tent, too quick to remind Dorian of the Chantry left behind in Haven.

"This kind of fire can burn wherever the Veil is weak. Solas says it feeds with the force trying to push through, so it doesn't need wood or tinder. Some places where my clan lived had veilfire torches installed in stone, and our Keeper burnt it as a proof of our ancestors' presence. But I didn't know a mage can produce it from thin air", the elf said.

"Neither did I. Solas must feel special in that particular matter."

"Not just one...", she muttered.

"How are you doing after... everything?", Dorian asked. "Knowing that you stayed behind on purpose... wasn't easy." She stood up and rubbed her side, leaning against a pillar.

"All is well that ends well, I suppose."

"You speak of escaping death by a hair as if you ate a wet apple pie. If desperate times ever called for desperate measures, I'd probably have to revive you. And then what? An undead Inquisitor could be a bit too much for the publicity. You'd have to wear ridiculously thick make-up to cover certain qualities of... you know, a dead body", Dorian lifted his chin.

"Laugh if you will, but to think of it... can lucky coincidences go that far? We've seen Alexius's Elder One. What if there's someone else who gave me the Mark and now leads me to defeat Corypheus? I wouldn't mind if it wasn't all done for the Chantry. Forget my own beliefs, what about others who join – other Dalish people, dwarves, the Qunari who don't call any gods for protection? Is the Herald not theirs? Do banners really matter if the entire world is in danger?"

"I'm no theologian but, there you go – the Chantry is using its opportunity to be more correct than the others. Nothing new under the sun. By the time we find new shelter, I'll have known the Canticle of Silence like the back of my own hand."

"Aren't you andrastian as well? Doesn't Tevinter have its own kind of Chantry? With your own Divine?"

Dorian chortled. "Our clergy is selected from the Imperial Circles. They exist to lick boots of people like my father. I told you of the Canticle of Silence, yes? The one telling about the great sin of our magisters? According to the Imperial Chantry, it was forged by the Orlesian priesthood. Anything that shows us in a bad light must be a ruse, is that correct?", he pouted. "But now, the Southerners will spread it as a proof of their triumph. I don't believe in the Chantry, either of them. There must be a grain of truth on each side", he sat down by the veilfire and fixed a dull stare upon the unusual embers. "And the Maker Himself? I've seen too much to believe I know everything. The world is bigger than I. Even bigger than you. It laughs at everything we think we know. The Maker might not need me to believe, but... maybe I need it. The thought of no-one at all watching out for us is... too frightening."

"I didn't expect to hear anything like that... from you", she said.

"See? I _can_ be modest when I _want_ to. And people never believe me", he scoffed. "I might not believe in the Chantry, but I believe in you. Cassandra's not wrong. You're what we needed most when we were in need. I hope that's what they will say in the ages to come."

"It feels like the fight has only just started, but... thank you."

"Just don't get bewitched. That would give me another admirer, and I must already have more than I can poke a stick at", he smiled and twirled his mustache. "So, what's the big plan for now? With so many people bustling about your quarters, I suppose somebody _has_ come up with a good one."

"Solas saw a place for us in his dreams. A castle in the North built on a rock ledge, with its towers bathing in the clouds as if it was carrying the sky itself. He said he could see remains of our people's sites covered by the work of Fereldans. Our old magic still at work there. The garden can bloom all year long if mages tend to it properly. Just to explore the castle fully could take weeks. There's so many doors, corridors, cloistered arcades, hidden walls and rooms. We can grow into a real force... if it's true", she spoke as if she had found her own tangible idol. Playing blind man's bluff in the mountains like that could cost them much more than hero's good fortune.

"Solas's faith in his own ability to distinguish wishful thinking from prophecies is... touching", Dorian sneered.

"Do we have an alternative?"

"At the moment? Our teeth chatter", he answered. "People will follow wherever you lead. If I were you, I'd think twice before spending resources on a chase after a dream vision."

"I have trust in Solas. He grew up at the foot of these mountains", she said fiercely. "All I ask for is that you endure for a while. When we find a new home, someone else can take the lead."

"If that's what you say. Who's been inside his head", Dorian muttered.

"Exactly", she sneered.

At least, Dorian's life had prepared him for having no real prospects, to a certain extent. There hadn't been so much walking before; there were cities and carriages, night entertainment, abundance of food and clothes, much more liquor and idleness. None of these could change the feeling of having no place of his own. Except that now he had no place of his own with others. Was that the part of reality of Herald's elven people? Perhaps the march from Haven could help the people understand their Herald, a certain kind of craving for a home with a personal history.

The great march entered an endless cycle: sending scouts forward, slowly following their signposts, hearing from scouts, resupplying. Their time felt like running in circles, yet somewhere at the back of his head Dorian knew that the time was really running out. Until one day rocks under their feet started appearing shaped on purpose. Having melted the snow ahead, the mages revealed a path flat enough for horse carriages and brontos. Behind the next mountain ridge, the paved road fell into a tunnel carved through a cave, with spiderweb curtains hanging from smooth walls that resembled an old dwarven outpost. They spent a day or two clearing the place out of deepstalkers and spiders. Following the air drought, they found daylight again. The tunnel opened up to a work of Fereldan architecture: a fortress built on a mountain islet. It was guarded by twin club-shaped rocks with carvings of slender figures hiding faces in their hands, each escaping the sun and turning towards the mountain pass. The castle had a cloudy chasm for its moat hanging high above a sapphire lake. The paved approach took them right to a spacious stone bridge reminding of the time when they all crossed the Penitents' Crossing on a daily basis. An eye of the Frostback Mountains, well concealed by their wrinkled lids - Solas's dream had materialised.

 


	13. Scarecrow's Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as the Inquisition enters Skyhold, strange things start happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode contains Cole's first exposition, basically starting a subplot about a bunch of mage nerds investigating spirit nature... and Dorian's eternal mental torment as a perfect ball of unresolved hurt (well, not quite yet, but it's impending.)
> 
> Skyhold releases my inner Sims decorator.

Dorian had, quite positively, never seen anything like that before. The place had its own song woven within the Veil. A distant peaceful humming deep within the ears harmonised with feeble fluxes of the day light. Like hot air raising above the fires, it distorted the view if caught under the proper angle. Just at first glance, the castle deserved a proper separate investigation.

"Weeeird", a young elven archer girl with horribly mistreated blonde bangs trod carefully through the courtyard. "Dead calm. Like after a plague. There won't be dead bodies, right? Just thinking of it... euuuugh!"

Were there corpses, the idea of turning them into servants for a time probably wouldn't have gained much popularity. Curious how much hard physical labour the Southerners left for themselves, and how eagerly they complained afterwards. Like supply wagons and bronto carts fallen victim to the slippery leaf pulp, pushed out of swampy puddles by exhausted craftsmen.

It was as clear as day for any person sensitive to the Veil that ancient and powerful magic was at work out there. But what was it? If there were any traces of pointed arches, ubiquitous summoning circles or ancient glyphs on the walls, Dorian could have sworn his fellow countryment left their mark in the middle of the Frostbacks, so far away from the Imperial Highway. But there was nothing like that, just a regular Fereldan castle, insufferable in its sad desolation.

Arrival at a new place kept the people thrilled for the time being, and that was good enough. Even if it all could go with the wind in months' time because the world had changed for the worse in the eyes of an unquenchable ancient zealot. But now that the zealot revealed his name, at least they could learn his ways.

Dorian's precious attire, miraculously saved from destruction in battle, demanded him to avoid any puddles and suspicious cavities in the courtyard. Rotting puddles all around the courtyard had already taken enough victims. Interestingly, even the weather inside castle's aura appeared milder than it was on the outside. As far as the time of the year was concerned, they could have wasted the rest of Firstfall marching aimlessly.

Dorian followed the folk deeper inside, up the staircase ending with an arched portal. As soon as soldiers finished grappling with a massive wooden bar and pushed the door wings aside, a draught of cold and stale air broke out of a desolate lenghtwise hall, good for banquets and receptions. It gave a familiar feeling, and not a reassuring way: the roof was torn asunder, its pieces scattered all over the floor. The trees started patching it up on their own, adding a blanket of dead leaves to the interior. A large steel chandelier remained in the middle of the hall twisted and shattered by a sudden downfall. Tall windows whistled in memory of stained glass panes, bringing even more cold in. A half-rolled crimson carpet slithered towards a throne platform. All the doorways leading out of the hall were boarded up by piles of rubbish.

"Be careful. We might not be alone", Cullen said. Listening to his Veil sense, Dorian strolled along the walls and ran his hand against door arches and walls. There was a strong energy influx behind a debris obstacle course that could be possibly concealing a door.

"There's concentrated energy in the next course of rooms. Perhaps we should investigate", he suggested. Rutherford and Pentaghast looked at each other knowingly.

"What else can you tell about the Veil inside?", Pentaghast asked.

"I can only tell there are changes in the Veil. So far, it has felt... exceptionally firm. So firm it might make you dizzy. But over here...", Dorian held his ear close to the wall, "Something bends the energies... upwards and along the walls. The room ahead might have served as... a laboratory? A ritual chamber?", he thought aloud. With the Veil so strong in the entire area, there wasn't a single skeleton to threaten them. Unless there was another ancient magister slumbering in a sarcophagus, ready to demand answers where the old glory had gone.

"It is uncanny that we arrived to an abandoned place and it hasn't posed any threat so far", the Nevarran frowned. "I should pin Solas down about this."

"Don't you get a feeling that the apostate is making himself at home, Seeker?", the Commander teased.

"What is your point, Cullen?", she tightened her voice like a bowstring.

"He was supposed to help, but never to lead."

"You think he has hidden intentions? I shall not let my guard down, I promise", she replied. "Regardless of my trust for Solas, I'll pay attention to everyone who tries to have impact on our Herald."

"This one mage seems to make substantial impression on nearly everyone."

"Do you suggest mind control?"

"I wouldn't put that past a man who allegedly learns by meddling with dreams."

"I will take your voice into consideration, thank you", Pentaghast swallowed the anger forcing its way through her gleaming eyes.

"Let's get back to exploration. We need shelter by daybreak", Cullen muttered. Cassandra huffed and cracked her neck, as if getting ready to defeat an army all by herself. 

"Don't expect me to riffle through all that rubble with my delicate hands", Dorian pouted, loading a simple telekinetic spell. "If you allow."

Chipped stone bricks, roof tiles, animate rope serpents, broken tree branches and pieces of decayed roof beams followed the path he drew in his mind, heaped up on the sides of a robust doorway. "Perhaps the post-relocation cleaning and renovation aren't the most exciting activities on our current to-do list, but it can go a bit faster if you use the help of your mages in certain problematic instances", Dorian said. "Sweeping the entire castle with twig brooms will take another couple of months."

"We don't know what an intense ritual will do to the Veil out here. But we must accommodate the mages somewhere, whether they help rebuild the castle or not", Cullen rubbed his neck.

"The crumbled tower by the main gate appears large enough to ease our problem", Pentaghast nodded.

"Then, I should speak to Fiona as soon as possible. If you need me, I'll be in the courtyard solving logistic problems with Leliana", Cullen ruffled the fluffy hull of his cape. Sighing, Cassandra walked him away with her eyes. "Let us proceed inside, Lord Pavus. Whatever awaits there, will have to face us."

"Lord? Has my invaluable merit been rewarded with a title?"

"You do come from Tevinter nobility, don't you?"

"Which is as noble as a pig wearing lipstick. I don't suppose we need to go through an embarrassing talk about my family connections?"

"No, we don't. I must admit, it is rare to see a Tevinter distancing himself from his heritage so firmly."

"Well, here I am", he pouted. "Are we seizing this tower any time today?"

She exhaled with a challenging smile. "I'll go forward while you support me from behind. If we get surrounded, you might use one of these fancy spells of yours while I protect us with my shield."

"You're going to defeat all the enemies in close quarters while I distract them with my charm? That would deprive me of all the credit. I should think it through", Dorian leered with an impish smile. Luckily, the list of things waiting further inside did not include dozens of starving leaping corpses or arcane horrors distracted from their trance. There was a spacious rotunda with smooth walls covered in yellowish plaster. Neatly laid sett stones pointed their way to a humble mosaic centrifuge illuminated by a straight beam of light. Their eyes wondered two or three stories upwards, following intertwining flights of stairs. The view from the bottom resembled some ancient arcane patterns circling an oculus, now a hole with debris gaping from the rooftop and dust flickering under the daylight. The hall hummed in tune with waterfalls and cascades, the main feature of the mountains underneath.

"A-ha! Call me a dwarf if magic hasn't been performed here", Dorian hooted. "This part of the castle must be harmonized with the mountain water veins. Simply amazing."  
He brushed all the spiderwebs aside from a peculiar desk sculpted from a tree ring that was covered in some darkening varnish. Cassandra started ripped nailed planks away from what used to be an open archway.

"There's a narrow corridor ahead, and... a staircase?", she peeked through a slit. Before Dorian turned around, the planks crunched and cracked, finished off by a powerful kick. Pentaghast breathed out and nodded at him, leading the way upstairs. Dorian lit a golden-yellow orb in his hand as he followed onto a spiral staircase.

"What do you think about what we saw in Haven? About that Corypheus?", the echo of Pentaghast's voice led their way upwards. "I am asking because I've heard of Corypheus before. Varric was with the Champion of Kirkwall as he investigated ancient Warden premises in the Vimmark Mountains. Corypheus was what they found sealed away in a prison secured by powerful blood magic. As Varric confessed, the monster was... rather detached when he awakened. He mistook them for citizens of ancient Tevinter. He talked about the Golden City not being what he expected. That convinced the Champion that the Chantry was correct about the ancient magisters storming the Golden City and becoming the first darkspawn."

"What can I say, in that case? I grew to believe that both Chantries only aimed to throw accusations at each other with little regard for the truth. And what do I learn now? Not only is the blame ours, but also a heck of my countrymen still invest in the same causes."

So busy gesticulating he was, he nearly missed that they entered another floor shaped like a hoop, with an open view at the centrifuge below. By the wall, a row of alcoves unveiled. In the nearest recess, under the faint light from his light orb and a dirty window, he saw bookcases and bookrests resting under a thick cloak of dust. Just looking at the ubiquitous dull greyness made Dorian's nose itch.

"I think I know where I will make myself at home. But not before it gets a solid clean-up", he said under his breath. A single brushing move over a bookcase's edge made his hand's colour blend with taupe grey of the walls. He picked at random, flicking the dust off the cover. The pages were dirty yellow, fragile and smelled of old age, but the ink – still legible. Sermons from the Glory Age... not exactly Dorian's favourite. Even though the Nevarran hurried him to proceed, he huffed and sneezed in the corners, looking for familiar titles. A single book from Tevinter would be worth ruined hair and the discomfort of having dust all over his skin.

They traversed every inch of the tower an beyond, reaching the aviary by the rooftop and a long balcony with a full view over the castle. In the courtyard, Cullen and the guards were on the lookout for someone.

"I swear he was here a while ago!", the blonde ran in circles, looking around. Dorian leant against a balustrade, ready to snort with mild jeer, when he felt a gentle waft crossing his chin. What was most unusual, the waft spoke to him softly:

"Wry from salt, the sand, the paper - rough. Fingers taste funny from flipping. He's gone until evening. I can read whatever I want, not those stupid family trees. Oak shelves crack, become a forest. They won't see me, they won't want." Ivory-blonde curls beneath a huge marksman's hat fell on a long, pointy nose. A figure swung back and forth on the balustrade, unafraid of falling.

"Huh?", Dorian turned about. Something flipped like startled pigeon's wings, except it went down, into the shrubs. The Nevarran swordsmaiden watched the courtyard underneath with a mysterious half-smile. That castle was much more foreign than it appeared at face value.

"You had something to say?", Pentaghast asked.

"Haven't you felt like...", he started, but his mind blanked out all of sudden. "Nevermind. My Veil sense might be a tad overwhelmed", he shook his head. That place wasn't remorely like home. What the heck made him think of home? A lack of proper sleep and a poor diet, quite likely. In a few days, he'd have a twitching eyelid and cramps in his calves. It was about time to ask his new alchemist friend for something nourishing. At least a cup of hot cocoa. Did they drink cocoa in the South?

He looked at his poor soiled hands and dusted them off. The rotunda library was a bit like the one in their family mansion in Asariel where he spent his summer holiadys whenever Father had a break from the Magisterium, which wasn't astonishingly often. Using Father's library felt like a privilege, though it mostly occurred for the sake of additional homework. It contained exactly one thick tome of beast fables, musty, with jagged page corners. Dorian always stole it away to his room where the air smelled of the Nocen Sea.

"Can you remember the boy who tended to Chancellor Roderick in the temporary camp? I can't recall his face. But he had a funny hat."

"I haven't seen Roderick until it was too late", Pentaghast grimaced. "But he had his moment of heroism, and I hope he had good care."

Wasn't Cullen chasing some rascal a while before? If he had chased someone, why was he standing as usually, all work and no rest, leaning heavily over his strategic maps? Something strange had been coming about since the moment they arrived. 

Since Dorian dedicated himself to tidying the library up in the moments to come, he could as well have slept there, warming himself up with furs. The workers quarried piles of tarnished furniture out of every nook of the castle, so Dorian took the courtesy of furnishing his new haven with a delicious armchair. Soon, the only library alcove with a window held the first throne in Skyhold, one with a tall backrest and soft, sinking, rose-coloured Orlesian velvet cushions. Everyone looked at the annuated piece of furniture with such disgust that they must have felt pure envy for Dorian's lucky second-hand treasure haul. As far as he was concerned, anything was better than a straw mattress on a frozen ground.

The council decided that other mages could inhabit the centrifuge tower too, for the time being. At least Dorian wasn't alone when the lights went out and the halls went a bit... haunting. Not that he was afraid of spirits, that would have been ridiculous. But the night chill became insufferable, and the more people breathed the same air in the same enclosed space, the better.

The first week would have gone by in a completely ordinary manner, if it wasn't for recurring complaints about a mysterious force in the castle. Someone opened all the windows wide in the bedquarter ring, letting the wind repel the stale moldy whiff. All the bad hay, drenched by the rain through holes in the roof, disappeared from the stables overnight. Skyhold inhabitants reported misplaced food and weapons, finding lost items put neatly on their beds, strange whispers echoing in the evening. People kept forgetting what they were about to say, slipped their tongues, stopped in the middle of mundane activities as if petrified, wrote things they didn't mean, found their books opened on the pages they found strangely meaningful. Some swore they saw a scarecrow-like figure gilding in the battlements under the Satina light. No sooner had Skyhold buzzed with rumours of a Scarecrow Boy than it bustled with life after years of stagnancy.

"I told you I'm not in fever, Cassandra", Cullen called out one day. "I sensed it, and so did you."

"I knew it was too easy to simply walk into this castle. But... what are we facing? Can a demon operate with such stealth?"

"Demon or not, we must eliminate the threat as quickly as possible. Too many people out here are prone to possession."

Cullen's every word was an official statement. And since the folk were prone to possession, they absolutely needed to be mollycoddled by their kind templar guards. Admittedly, Dorian didn't sign up for an unofficial duplicate of the Southern Circles, and he hoped he needn't have to stand up to the fatigued commander or his minions.

Apparently, Solas reached the same conclusion, since he approached Dorian some time after the Scarecrow Ghost problem had broken out. The elf poked the mage gently on the arm and led on through the battlements, to the most damaged and desolate spot staring into the gaping lake abyss. One of those abysses that called with a mysterious temptation to leap.

"Well, aren't that inspiring surroundings. If you wish to go on a walk together, you can ask ourtight, you know", Dorian chirped.

"I lured you here mostly to give a warning. The matter at hand demands great subtlety and discretion", the apostate replied. "Unusual things have been happening in the campsite. It's rather hard to miss. I reckon you're highly unlikely to surrender to the paranoid whisperings about demonic possessions. You've probably also asked yourself what, or rather who is capable of playing tricks on us."

"I suppose you have more of those educated guesses about the thing they call Scarecrow."

"It's not a thing. A spirit, most likely", Solas stated. "At least it leaves traces in the Veil like a spirit. If I am right, it is crucial to reach it out before the mob starts running about with torches and pitchforks."

"I quite understand. I am myself a man of scientific curiosity", Dorian replied. "Anything specific you're going to do about it?"  
"For now? Stay vigilant. If we wish to understand the ghost, we should find out what attracts it, what sort of experience feeds it. When we know that, we might convince it to show its true form."

"We?", Dorian gave an impish smile. "Am I just being recruited to some shady endeavour?"

"Why don't you tell me. Supposedly, you're the curious one."

When Dorian leant his arm against the battlements, soft leather-like texture dabbed his elbow. Someone recklessly left a huge tattered hat out there, to take an unique trip downwards. "Well, look at this. Who would have simply left it here? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if the owner wanted to discard it without eyewitnesses, but it's almost like... it appeared from nowhere", Dorian winced as something started feeling wrong again. "I've seen this hat somewhere. Actually worn on somebody's head."

Apostate's narrow eyes went as cold as the cloudy sky itself. "It's here", Solas signalled. Dorian stood there petrified, wondering why he would pay attention to a certain pair of bulging, watery eyes underlined by thick bags and ashen purple circles.

"What's going on?", Solas asked sharply after a while.

"I've just seen something, haven't I?", Dorian guessed by elf's sharpened, scrutinising expression.

"The spirit must be erasing memories of its presence."

"That explains why I can't connect the damn hat with anyone I know. It's undoubtedly the ugliest, the most mistreated hat I've ever seen. I'll never get the thing out of my memor... oh", Dorian clenched his empty hand. What if a genuine invisibility cowl had been disguised as a mediocre piece of headgear so no-one with a vague sense of fashion really wanted to try it on?

"There is a connection, though. Seems like most people aren't that lucky. Is there anything else you can recall about... umm... the hat?", Solas winced as if he couldn't believe he had to go through that sort of conversation. To be honest, neither did Dorian. In a perfect daydream vision, he saw the hat garlanding Solas's scalp, to match the general quality of elf's attire.  _Time twisted as it shouldn't be. You saw the future and it was wrong. Chasing instead of changing, holding back, not helping. What if it's fixed now that you've seen it_? Well... maybe a bit. In the good old "nothing new under the sun" manner.

"Something with Haven. But it makes no sense. There were no Orlesian marksmen in Haven?", Dorian wondered. They moved on along the battlements, listening to the wind howling in the roof holes. "Didn't someone run ahead of Corypheus's army to warn the Inquisition?", Dorian scratched his head. "A templar survivor? No, wait. He was rather scrawny for a templar."

When they reached the staircase by the tavern, the wind blowing through Dorian's hair awakened a vivid recollection. It was the same during the battle of Haven, Cullen's winblown mane and flapping coat. "I came to warn you, to help. People are coming to hurt you. The red templars went to the Elder One. You know him? You took his mages", the strange boy raced through words after he reached the camp. "If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!", Cullen ordered about. Then, the boy wandered off somewhere and returned dragging injured Chancellor Roderick along when everyone was evacuated into the Chantry. "He tried to stop a templar. The blade went deep. He's going to die." The young man had large exhausted eyes, like a surface of muddy waters.

"Now it's as clear as day!", Dorian slammed the stone railling. "It's the boy who came to Haven ahead of the battle. I was wondering why I haven't seen him ever since... whether he got left behind when we were marching through the mountains. But he has been here all along, sneaking past people and making them forget if they caught him red-handed."

"A spirit taking completely human shape? That would be exceptional", Solas enthused.

"Wouldn't it? I think I'll enjoy our tiny investigation."


	14. Double-bladed justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Alexius's trial comes, and the Skyhold ghost starts paying attention to the person who cares most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode contains mentions of transphobia (made in Tevinter), grief and self-loathing (Cole doing his job), potential sacrilege (more like Dorian disregarding the Chantry)

Lady Inquisitor was the new title. Lavellan celebrated a heartwarming coronation as the official Inquisition's leader. From now on, her official occupational hazards included setting a good example, looking good in armour and judging wrongdoers from a sturdy throne with plenty jabbing elements. She came over one day, to inspect the library and to hear Dorian sharing his impressions on the shocking assault of Haven, the archdemons and ancient darkspawn, and the course of action taken by his fellow countrymen.

He sneered a bit, giving a crowning touch to the whole disappointing business of losing Haven. The story, a tiny masterpiece of one sleepless night, included _even_ the archdemon's point of view. "Whaaat? You thought this would be easy? - _Noooo_ , I was just hoping you wouldn't crush our village like an anthill. - Sorry about that! Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can't be helped." Inquisitor's face indicating that Dorian had beamed his head against a solid obstacle couldn't spoil the satisfaction of letting off steam. Sharing Tevinter lore usually gave him a funny urge to chafe his knuckles. Especially when it involved the bitter discovery that the Imperium _was_ nearly as guilty as everyone else portrayed them.

Armchairs weren't made for sleeping, he had learned that much for that few days. He cracked his joints with a loud grunt and made a few squats and bends. Thankfully, after the tavern under Herald's Rest name celebrated its opening evening, there were other places to find warmth and shelter in the night. As Dorian was standing bent over with his head stuck between his knees, a runner waved at him with his errand list. This time, Lady Inquisitor requested an urgent meeting in the gardens.

By "the gardens" people usually meant an inner courtyard by the Northern ramparts, much-loved by the Revered Mother from Jader and her nurse sisters. Garden's charming red creeper curtains still livened the castle walls up with a ruby blush. Revered Mother sat on a bench inside a corner arbour, all carved in stone. She followed Dorian with her leer like a hired chaperone. On second thoughts, he could have restrained himself from displacing the whole Chantry-dedicated collection in his library alcove to the lowest bookshelf available, which happened to be the carpet. Or he could have assembled Divine Renata's encyclicals as his night table slightly less... gaudily.

While Revered Mother's judging gaze swept every corner stained by the ancient arcane arts and common apostasy, people gossiped that she became Herald's main rhetorical advisor. For an organisation run by a sister, a former templar and another super-templar, whatever those Seekers of Truth of Cassandra's were, they were getting dangerously close to founding their own Chantry splinter.

Lavellan waited under an ancient stone archway, similar to those guarding Avvar landmarks in the Hinterlands. The stones were affixed to each other air-tight, without any form of mortar, provoking with a false impression of instability. If they could have seen one of such arches in the middle of Old Minrathous, with its keystone hanging by a thread of a spell painstakingly renewed for centuries! The Parents could never teach Dorian _not_ to push the loose floating stones around with telekinesis. 

"I've heard Solas and you have been solving the mystery of our ghost", the Inquisitor greeted.

"If you stumble upon the young man who warned us about Corypheus's army, you might want to treat him with caution. He's most likely the one. Acts in the shadows and makes people forget him, if necessary. What is astonishing, it appears he can sustain a conjured human shape."

"He stayed with us after all? I thought he ran after Haven. So, you mean he isn't human?", she gasped. "How could he even pretend? What can he be?"

"Solas suspects it's a spirit. Well, what he _said_ contained more beating about the bush in a pseudo-scholarly fashion, but that's how you could summarise it", Dorian crossed his arms.

"That complicates things. People are afraid of demons."

"Whatever people feel about it, we won't find out what the ghost wants until it speaks for itself."

"Do you have an idea how to make it speak, then?"

"We're working on it. It's hard to predict something you fail to notice."

"The ghost wasn't the only reason I called you. There's something I wanted you to know in advance."

"Am I nominated to a beauty contest as the prettiest, friendliest -"

"Ferelden has found us, at last", she interrupted. "The first declaration they made was leaving Alexius to our discretion. Tevinter denounced him and refused to get further involved. That means _we_ have to hold the trial against him."

"I... see", Dorian dissipated, leaning his back against a thin yellowed birch. "So, I suppose I should say goodbye? After all he's done... He had it coming, didn't he", his voice faded into faltering.

"It doesn't have to end like this. I start hearing suggestions that he should be made Tranquil, and I'd rather avoid that", she confined. "That's why I wanted to hear what you think about it."

"You want all the Chantry people to see you talking to _me_ in the corridors right before the trial? Tsssk, what a horrendous image policy", he shook his head.

"Maybe, but you can see through him. It's not that you'd make him look like the hero of the day."

"You're correct. Still, I remain involved, and I'd rather you weren't blamed for making unpopular choices under the wrong kind of influence", Dorian crossed his arms.

"Do you? Or would you rather avoid being the scapegoat yourself?", she raised a single eyebrow.

"What they'll say about _me_ is like water off duck's back. I'm accustomed to taking the rap for inconvenient statements."

"What's the statement about Alexius?"

"Those who joined Corypheus hardly deserve my respect. Let alone mercy. But he..."  _Blue candle hearts in the study. Veridium, Satina, Equisetum. Exhausted, elated, cold, complete. The more tests passed with flying colours, the better the brandy afterwards._ Dorian barely cracked a smile. Memories weren't as pleasant when they weren't valid anymore. "He was a good man before it all went down. He and I used to talk over brandy about corruption, how we could one day make real change in the Imperium. And then he... gave up. Stopped trying. On a journey to Hossberg, a darkspawn raid killed his wife, sickened Felix. I remember hearing the news."

Damn well Dorian remembered, because Alexius dragged him along on an exhausting journey to Anderfels. The locals who found the caravan hurried to Weisshaupt with Felix. Alexius decided to catch them on their way. Once in the fortress, he demanded that the Wardens shared their great secret of mastering the taint. Not the wisest move, as in return he received an ultimatum: they left Felix to the Wardens without questions, or they could get out empty-handed. That was when the change in Alexius started showing. He refused to let go. He preferred Felix agonizing on the way back to Tevinter.

"He hadn't been there, you see. Alexius was convinced he could have protected them, and the guilt tore him up." Dorian spent the next month trying to steal the Warden's mystery. He only found a tiny mention about alchemical properties of wyvern and dragon blood. There was also gossip, written down on the margins, that the Grey Wardens performed empowering rituals upon slaying each Archdemon. Thankfully, an experimental wyvern liver concoction stopped the taint from spreading for a while. But Alexius's reputation in the Circles dwindled as more and more senior enchanters perceived him as a dangerous lunatic. Dorian's family name was the only thing protecting him from the ricocheted disdain for his tutor.

"Suffering destroyed his moral judgement. Everything else was a tragic landslip. Before I noticed any change for the worse, he started looking up to the old cults and their promises of a grand resolution of life's greatest problems. I saw his downfall with my own eyes."

"Everything he's done can't come from grief alone", Lavellan replied. "A wise keeper knows his responsibility, and doesn't let his mind get blurred by any passing feelings, good or bad. You can't tell a man's strength until he's tested, and Alexius failed the test miserably."

"He did. Does that make all he'd been before less valid?", Dorian asked bitterly.

"He betrayed what he had been before. You're the one who said it. How to make him pay now that he doesn't care? For killing all these Tranquil, for messing with the world itself?"

"I know. You could think that if you want to be fair, you need to make the world all even. But that's a never-ending journey", Dorian nodded. "When the guilty ones don't care, it's even harder to rise above it."

She sighed. "These judgments will give me sleepless nights."

"Whatever happens, I can have a drink to your good sleep, to the old times and Alexius's poor soul", he said. That made three drinks, and the list for that evening had only just opened up. Hmm.

"The trial's at noon, if you want to come over."

"I feel obliged. My own involvement aside, a few people in the Imperium might still bother."

Trying to find out who could _actually_ care, he strayed to Lady Josephine's office to share a few names. The ambassador revealed that the Archon "took discreet steps that may strengthen Inquisition's reception in the Imperium." And that wouldn't have come for free, of course. Radonis needed assurance that the Inquisition wouldn't mind his claims to the land distrained by the Venatori. It appeared they had chosen a specific cross-border strap of land in the Silent Plains to set Tevinter and Nevarra at each other. The Archon was willing to share his intelligence inasmuch as he believed that the Venatori had major influence in the Magisterium. He hired a former _perrepata_ _,_ a trained mage-slayer, to hunt the key Venatori figures operating in Minrathous. What remained between the lines, Radonis must have feared a coup like every Archon without support from the vast majority of magisters. Josephine's contacts in the North revealed that Radonis's agents showed suspicious caution towards magister Maevaris Tilani.

"The Archon has long been apprehensive of her impressive self-sufficiency. Especially the ruthless manner in which she secured and sustained her place in the Magisterium, battling certain predicaments... about which you surely know", Josephine explained. Her euphemistic phrasing was almost impressive.

Lord Athanir Tilani, Maevaris's father, was admittedly too soft for his function. His colleagues chose to act up to this ascertainment with typical conniving malice. Other magisters constantly bilked him out of money and favours to always stand him up in the end, like a lonely gentle child unable to rebel against the bullies. Radonis respected Lord Tilani's temperant mind, but how could he ignore the indubitable evidence that a scheme involving the magister threatened _his own_ position? The Magisterium called for Tevinter's favourite counting-out rhyme: suspicions of high treason, harmful conspiracy, _artes maleficara._ The Archon had Lord Tilani executed without a trace of reluctance, as it would have passed as a weakness.

The execution reawakened the greatest upheaval in decades. The _friendliest_ magisters had been trying to discredit Maevaris, based on her being born in a man's body, ever since she embraced her true self. When the head of the house, who had always granted his daughter protection, died with his name dragged in mud - that was when the whole shit went down once again. According to the official rhetoric of the time, Maevaris was a coward who willingly signed out of manliness but still wanted to become a senator and skim the Altus cream. The only real coward in this story was the Archon who showed how little that oar-shaped staff and the funny ring on his finger meant when the senators around kept on slaughtering each other.

Respect for the unusual candidate for magister's seat only appeared when selected families had to face valid evidence of maleficar practices and Old God worship. After many years, undermining Maevaris's right to anything still brought bad luck. The more Dorian thought about it as a grown man, the more his stomach turned inside out. If anything like that happened to _him_ when he was entering adulthood, he would've cowered somewhere in a lowly brothel and hoped not to wake up the morning after.

"Old Mae's getting more attention in the game? That is most interesting", Dorian nibbled his soul patch. It would have been lovely to hear more of that spicy gossip from his homeland. Or, even better, hear from Maevaris herself.

In the meantime, Solas hit upon an idea to catch the ghost using the ancient artifacts found across the Hinterlands. At steady state, they looked like ordinary spheric orbs made of opaque alloy, with several magical gears sticking out. When activated, they created radiating force fields responding with the Veil's strength. As the apostate claimed, knowing specific recurring wave patterns allowed the user to "measure" the Veil in artifact's immediate surroundings.

"It might be vague theorising, but using at least three of those, we should be able to create a cage that will prevent the spirit from bending the Veil. It should be harder for him to control people's minds, or turn invisible for the time being."

Dorian took a peek at Solas's library wishlist about the nature of spirits and the Veil. Roughly three pages of titles only, including positions from the Black Age practically unfindable outside Minrathous. How would a peasant from the Frostbacks even _know_ about all these books' existence? Did his journeys around the Fade include learning library indexes by heart?

"What are we going to do with the artifacts, apply some sort of a charm?", Dorian asked.

"I have marked several spots in the castle which are most likely to create a resonance between the artifacts. Commander Cullen should thank me", the elf scoffed. "I could weaken all sorts of magic in the castle's perimeter using this setup."

"So, does _your_ activating such artifacts all over Ferelden also weaken the magic to some extent?"

"I doubt it. Under normal circumstances, all the power from the artifact goes into mending tears in the Veil and preventing new rifts."

"Well, if it helps solve the mystery, then it's worth a try", Dorian replied. "Let's set everything up before the trial. We don't need any gaping onlookers seeing us perform evil sorcery at a time like this."

The damn things were _heavy_. So heavy that Dorian couldn't bend his elbows after a triple stroll along the castle walls. But they found one particularly dense spot in the tavern's attic, which only convinced Dorian to stay for a while. Perhaps romantic cues between the frequent visitors weren't the most intelligent form of entertainment, but nothing more profound stuck to his mind on that day. The mercenary lieutenant with a Southern Tevinter province accent winked and made toasts at the minstrel. The minstrel followed the wheat-haired elven rogue from Orlais with her eyes, singing louder whenever the other lass passed her by. The elf ogled the barmaids in tight jerkins. The Qunari mercenary leader ogled _both_ the barmaids and the meals they served. Barmaids returned their gazes to the bulky grey soldier and the lone Warden's salt-and-pepper beard. The beard seemed fond of beer foam. The beer made impression on everyone but Varric Tethras who was too preoccupied with polishing his crossbow. Three dwarven ales later, when people started buzzing about politics and the incoming trial, Dorian moved on to find an inconspicious observation spot in the throne hall. He didn't need to hear anything more than he had realised on his own.

They brought Alexius chained and dressed in rags and furs that were barely stitched together, like a pauper highwayman, an ordinary thug. Behind the main doorway, the guard removed Alexius's hood to show his face to the mob – more wrinkled and sagging than Dorian had ever remembered, dried out by the dungeon draught, stupefied from the waterfalls' humming right underneath the cells. Inquisitor's throne was too large for her tiny elven body - her feet barely touched the ground, arms had to spread to reach the armrests. 

"Gereon Alexius of Tevinter", Lady Josephine announced. "Ferelden has given him to us as acknowledgment of your aid. The formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, attempted assassination on your own life, finally: lethal maleficar experimentation. Tevinter has disowned him and stripped him of his rank, permitting the Inquisition to judge the former magister outside their soil... as you see fit."

Apostasy? What was _that_ doing among the charges since the Southern Circles had been dissolved? Was it a formality to appease the Orlesians? A trick to prevent extradition? Had Tevinter agreed to judge Alexius as their citizen, considering all the glaring evidence, the deadly rhyme would have gone on: high treason, conspiracy, heresy, _artes maleficara_... Anything to execute him or to turn him Tranquil whilst any line of self-defence would have seemed ridiculous. No surprise that Archon Radonis had shirked from that judgement... Except that this time there was no pushover dragged into a cesspool, only Alexius's conscience too numb to carry the screaming guilt.

"The list of charges should be longer, but we don't really have a precedent for nearly ripping the time apart at the seams", Lavellan said.

"I couldn't save my son. Do you think my fate matters to me?", Alexius snapped. For Maker's sake, for _once_ he could have given a damn.

"Will you offer nothing more in your defence?", Josephine asked.

"You've won nothing. The people you saved, the acclaim you've gathered – you'll lose all in the storm to come. Render your judgment, Inquisitor", Alexius drawled. What steps were required to infer from "My son is dying" to "Everyone had better die"? Dorian couldn't see that happening using the most refined mental gymnastics. When he was still an apprentice, his peers called that 'deduction from arsehole.' The erosion of Alexius's mind was still hardly believable. Had there been any way to isolate him from the fanatics' influence, to make him listen to the right advisors... No, there wasn't any way. In the Imperium, all the weakened minds fell into one common trap in the end.

"You couldn't save your son, so you made the whole world feel your loss?", the Inquisitor replied. "You will spend the rest of your life doing exactly what you planned: trying to reverse the impossible. This time, you'll be undoing the wrong you've done. You swore to the mages you'd help them? I'll have you uphold that promise. Enchanter Fiona will take charge of you. Any knowledge, favour, or coin you own will go towards the mages' future. They can use your possessions and resources however they see fit."

"A headsman would have been kinder", Alexius hissed. So, he was going down like a real magister, preferring to be dead than humbled. It was like an arrow to the elbow, but added a wicked moral to the story.

"Hmmmmm. Smart", a deep, guyish voice muttered nearby. Dorian turned around and froze: the seven-foot-tall Qunari mercenary chief with a single bicep larger than Dorian's thigh (and Dorian _wasn't_ a weakling himself) nodded to his second-in-command.

"Piss on it", the young elven woman snapped by the doorway. "He's a freakin' magister from freakin' Tevinter. Went all bollocks, and what of it? Still treated with white gloves! 'Cause when you harm the rich folk, it's _so_ evil!"

"See, Buttercup, sometimes the noose sounds merciful compared with eating the humble pie", Varric squint his little eyes with a sly grimace as Dorian called a silent retreat before being noticed by _any_ of them. He took a walk to the orchard, then up the wall to watch the tallest Northern tower being rearranged for mages' use. Soon, they'd have probably received Alexius's equipment from Redcliffe and full chests of books he had brought along from Tevinter. Regardless how they'd have dealt with Alexius from now on, they had gained a troublesome and needy minion.

The castle was slowly losing its autumn colours to the muddy grey of the soil and unabsorbed puddles. Dorian leant against the ramparts to enjoy the multi-leveled courtyard maze split with bridges and flights of stairs. How much stone did the builders have to chip away before the fortress came any close to its current shape?

"The song of this place is so old it's hard to tell. It almost feels... eternal", a soft voice called behind Dorian's back. This time there were no tricks, no hazy mirage, no breeze out of nowhere. He simply walked over and lowered his head, so that the shadow from his hat brim could cover the entire face. "He should have stopped chasing fairy tales and thought about other people. I was there for him, I needed him all the time. Why couldn't he see that?", the ghost lamented.

"What can you know", Dorian grunted. But admittedly, the ghost sounded like something Dorian would have said very long ago. "What... have you just reached my memories?", he snapped.

"I come to help", the boy sat on the wall.

"So, tearing images out of someone's mind is a new form of help? I shall keep it in mind. What is your domain, ghost? Do you feed on conflict? Regret?", he asked sharply.

"I tug it open so it can go away. Find things that make people feel better. Sometimes I say things they don't want to admit. I-it seems to hurt more at first, but it gets better... in time. I don't _feed_ on pain. I'm here to ease it", he matched the pace of his voice with the air draught running along the walls. He kicked the air and dabbed his leather gauntlets. "Maybe he should learn this lesson the hard way. Maybe everyone who bled out for him should leave. If he wants me to go, I'm not coming back", ghost's voice hardened as he mimicked again.

"Oh, bugger...", Dorian covered his face with his hands. That was what he _thought_ when Alexius and he fell out.

"You stood your ground at the time. Now you wish you hadn't been that harsh. It wouldn't have helped, though. He was already hallow inside, hungry for hope. Anything gave a promise to feed his thought."

"So, you've reached Alexius too? Was the trial what lured you out this time?"

"His hurt anchors everywhere he goes. He tried so hard to cure, but all he did was kill. He had nothing but death to wrap around his son... I couldn't save Felix, thus I killed him too. The wellspring is dry, there's no mercy. The Void can take me... Nothing can be right anymore."

"That does sound like Alexius. All the things he betrayed... One man couldn't carry all that regret", Dorian sighed. "So, what now? Will I blissfully forget we've talked, go to sleep convinced that I owe the enlightenment to myself?"

"It won't be that easy with you. You need to remember this one... for later. There's so much more to unravel."

"Thank the Maker, there's some sanity left in the nation!", Dorian chirped. "Tell me, ghost. You've made yourelf seen in Haven. Have you thought about stepping out and saying hello? Making your presence more... constant?"

"Not yet. Many will fear, and then it's harder to help."

"If people find out your actions help them, they'll gain trust. Besides, the Inquisitor is getting curious about you."

"She will find me when I'm needed."

"That aura of mystery must be convenient...", Dorian sneered.

The ghost was gone before it could reply. Dorian checked each artifact set up on the ramparts, each knot of energy found in the castle – nothing. The ghost showed himself only to toy with them again, and _that_ was becoming an annoyance. One thing for sure, if he was attracted to Alexius's regret, he would have stuck around for good.


	15. They arrived on the scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New blood arrives in Skyhold as the old inhabitants slowly settle in. The arrival of Dagna from Orzammar and lord Trevelyan from Ostwick brings a promise of an interesting intellectual endeavour that can consolidate the community of mages.

Leftovers after Magister Alexius (the Bann wanted them out of sight) could have equipped a small Circle, and Fiona couldn't help but rub her hands. She immediately called to found a research team to utilise Alexius's work for the common good, and the Inquisitor delegated Dorian to join in. He alone seemed capable of guiding his fellows towards the most important issues that the Inquisition had to face: the damage done to the Veil, time manipulation, the real capability of Inquisition's adversaries, new forms of spirits' manifestation. Understanding the Venatori and Corypheus's army of templars was just as important as fighting them. Besides, other options put forward were nowhere as appealing.

"You can still join our scheduled expedition to the Fallow Mire. The place has a problem with the undead. Sounds like something for you", Lavellan told him.

"The undead don't linger in warm and sunny beaches. I suspect there's a catch."

"We're going there because an Avvar leader captured our scouts and demands that I face him myself. Also, Fallow Mire was built on a marsh in the dead end of the Korcari Wilds. It guarantees an ugly, dark and damp winter with memoirs of the Fifth Blight emerging from the waters."

He'd rather have bored his arse off while keeping it buried in warm cushions than had it sopping wet, holed by leeches and disfigured by... whatever trended in tribal weaponry. He wouldn't have blown a single corpse up without setting the entire bog on fire. What fun was there with the undead if Dorian couldn't show his unique combination of necro- and pyromancy?

"Yeees. I believe that the Breach investigation might be more important in overall, however less exciting", he nodded. With two empresses barking at each other in the corridors while the average people had only known life in captivity... It appeared that scientific endeavour in the Southern Circles didn't flourish thanks to the boldest but on the backs of the most cautious and fearful, those who laid their staves down right after the Harrowing to become sheltered librarians and oddity collectors. It was hard to imagine such folk getting their noses seared for the joy of actual experiment since they were used to templars watching over their shoulders. With that realisation in mind, Dorian started reconsidering a winter leave to the marshes.

"I tried to persuade Solas to help but... he's a loner, and a bit of a growler, to be honest", the Inquisitor shrugged. "He has enormous knowledge to share, but it's so hard to get him to open up." The Inquisitor believed it was the Chantry influence over the Inquisition that made Solas fierce and apprehensive. What she didn't realise was that the mage wasn't keen on sharing that enormous knowledge with anyone _but,_ occasionally, her or Cassandra Pentaghast, the woman who allowed him to skirt around the camp in the first place. Dorian tried once, asking Solas to explain how the apostate could be neither Dalish nor a city elf. Were countryside elves a different culture altogether, or something? That Dorian didn't find out, because it was he who had a problem with asking wrong questions. Yes, Solas had interesting ways of throwing others for a loss. Even sharing knowledge with Lavellan didn't come easy, as he would supposedly know the elven lore better than the Dalish – which obviously caused friction between the two. Still, the Inquisitor never sulked for long. The unique wellspring of mysterious knowledge was unexpendable. He seemed too big for his elven foot-rags, _knowing_ without a trace of doubt, and his dreamer experience would cut all the discussion down. But somehow, everyone expected Solas to be correct in the end, so they just chewed their teachings down.

Dorian had his own chamber now, with a furry pelt carpet and a lute salvaged from a dusted corner of his library alcove. As the sunlight started fading, he retreated into the dim calm of his four walls brightened up with light orbs floating above empty candlesticks. The inkpot marked its place on the desk with an ugly black splash sinking in the wood. Dorian would often put thoughts into letters just to get things off his chest. He spent a while trying to place the inkpot properly in the niche without soiling his fingers. For once his writing, however flawless in itself, could be free from spots, reckless fingertip marks and soaken corners. He'd been such a hog since neither of his parents peered over his shoulder.

 _Dear Maevaris, first of all, I feel obliged to apologise for another few months of insufferable silence. It happens that I've been tossed about a bit harder than usually._ He had run from home, admittedly not being magister Halward's son any- _ever_ -more – but that was the part Maevaris had known. What he had omitted, his family birthright token turned into savings for a rainy day. Thus, he had burned the last bridge that could have brought him back to his family, in case he _ever_ got such an insane idea.

_This time, precisely, the winds have tossed me far to the South, to the Frostback borderlands where, following Alexius's trace, I stumbled upon the Inquisition. So fine was the company, I've decided to linger for a while. What matters most, they concurred that we have a common goal – a goal you may approve of, and spare some of your priceless attention._

_At first, we suspected that Alexius's activity in the South would provide a satisfying explanation of the disaster in Haven. We've stopped and contained Alexius, not without my substantial involvement, but the threat turned out even greater than his desperate capture of Redcliffe. First of all: yes, the explosion probably involved ancient magic. Whether it was unsavoury, I cannot tell. But the Herald of Andraste is real, the scar on her hand which can close the Fade rifts is real, the force that started it all – more tangible than we have ever expected. The Venatori aren't just another blood-fixated kindergarten overflowing with fanatics._

So many things he couldn't _simply_ share. Dorian felt the remains of the time-altering amulet adding weight to his chest. The best future or the worst, they were all woven from the same threads. The same yarn and the same patterns could result in different tapestries. Power over the future belonged to those who had been first to forge their will into prophecies. From such prophecies came the canvas of action. People answered with assent or with protest. Thus, threads on the tapestry split into smaller paths, tightening knots around the mortals who were to become heroes and villains. The future of that world had already been outlined in the red of blood and rage, regardless who was to claim victory over it.

_They have a leading figure, that Corypheus, someone powerful enough to pass themselves off as an ancient magister. Someone powerful enough to rip a hole in the Veil. The matter is too solemn to be covered in a letter._

There was unspeakable weight in what Dorian had seen. The most crucial elements of the puzzle – Corypheus, time magic, the dark future, red lyrium – were classified for Inquisitor's closest circle only, and Sister Leliana's vigilant eye was the best precaution against spilling the beans. It felt like sliding into the world of yelling doomsayers realising that their audience wasn't prepared to comprehend. As a young boy, Dorian wouldn't have believed that _any_ truth could be so repulsive that it seemed easier to hate it. As a grown man, he could name too many instances in which enlightement had better have been passed on with hard liquor.

_Speak with Felix Alexius, if only he made it back to the Imperium. He promised to tell the Senate about everything he's seen. As far as I know the lad, he won't let it go if he still has time._

_For now, the Inquisition is a perfect match for my luck with scandal and wreaking havoc. Admittedly, there is hardly anywhere else I'd rather be... except when the ground frost makes its way into my chambers. Then, I dream about the Nocen seashore. Nevertheless,_ _if you wish to support the Inquisition in its struggle, I'm not going anywhere._

He had almost forgotten what it meant to aspire for anything tangible... So much time had he spent believing that his own countrymen never would've let him be somebody. In the hindsight, moving away felt so easy that he wondered why he had done it so late. Then, he remembered his Mother saying: "There's only one place in the world for a Tevinter, and that is where they were born."

_I'm not sure what to think about Archon's moves regarding the Venatori. Radonis is such an eel. The Venatori clearly are in power to muddle the waters and uncover the dirtiest sludge from the bottom of our nation's wellspring. Alexius was denounced and left for the Inquisition to judge, but he can't have been the strongest card down their sleeve. Tread lightly. Whoever controls the Venatori, might as well have the Magisterium wrapped around their little finger. At this point, any help from an ally well-versed in the Imperial affairs will be invaluable. The radicals from our country intend to take the world by storm and revive whatever they consider our ancient glory. All they do is carry the same blind, reproachful fury. What are these poisonous currents that can't cease to spoil our blood? Perhaps I'd have figured it out by now, had I a bottle of fine brandy. We must discuss it all next time I drop by in Quarinus._

He wrote it so lightheartedly, next time I'm here and there, as if he had an option to pop in anytime without an explanation: "Hello? Is stripweed tea still in fashion? _Egad_! We're having a deluge of cheap ham from Anderfels? _Canavarum_! Send me a word when this madness is over. _Vitae benefaria_!" Sadly, everything about being a Tevinter came with a bloody responsibility. "Each day, you leave your homestead to conquer and return to celebrate", Father's favourite golden thought. He could bite himself.

Magical lights were deceitful. They left their user in a cocoon, darkening the day and obliviating the night around. He felt a chilling zephyr stroking his shoulders and turning his feet stone cold, a clear sign that he should have moved to bed. Nothing soothed an exhausted mind like the gentle tingling of furs and the wave of heat slowly rising underneath. When he was tossing and turning around to find a perfect spot, something solid and edgy, tangled in the bedding, jabbed his stomach. There were rumours about ridiculous pranks occurring next to castle spirit's helpful acts, lizards and snakes landing in people's bedsheets. Either the spirit had severe mood swings, or someone used his reputation for petty annoyance. Dorian groped the unindentified object and checked the edges – smooth planed wood. An inept carpenter assassin to the collection of peculiarities? Dorian lifted the assault weapon above the covers to blind his heavy, swollen eyes with one last flash of a magical light.

" _A duck_?", he murmured under his breath. "A whittled wooden duck? What is it now, a toy subterfuge? _Vishante_..." Before he finished grumbling in the posh language of his ancestors, he decided he was too tired to think about it at all.

He was woken up by the usual courtyard commotion. Launderers were ringing their little bells to let people know that they were collecting. A patrol marched out into the valley. The foreman shouted his commands on the scaffoldings. Horses kept treading and snorting. Last evening's surprise wasn't just a dream figment – the duck still rested in Dorian's hand, his arm stretched as if he had hunted the toy down somewhere in the Fade. He needed more answers.

The main advantage of being a night owl was seeing the tavern dead empty when Dorian got round to eating, long after everyone else ate according to their daily schedule. Cabot the bartender, cheerful as always, splashed a large ladle of nondescript porridge-like Fereldan something into Dorian's bowl. When the pulp didn't come off the ladle, Cabot grunted. Stuffing the same thing in one's throat each morning supposedly encouraged self-discipline.

"So... How are things going?", Dorian asked.

"Viscid", the bartender grumbled, mopping the floor behind the bar stand. Everything about the tavern felt better during Flissa's shifts.

As if the hunger mitigating act in itself wasn't disconcerting enough, vigorous poking near Dorian's kidneys brought the morning closer and closer to ruin. The source of the poking turned out a dwarven lady with a pudgy nose and hair like wildfire. She had a companion ambuscading a few steps behind, like a pupil who needed a friend to ask their questions to the senior enchanter. It was a human lad in grey Circle robes, golden-peach-tanned and quite brawny for mage standards. Dorian must have made one of his morning not-pretty-yet faces, judging that the lad rounded his eyes like a Mabari pup in trouble.

"Excuse me! Maybe you can tell me... where can I find the Inquisitor? Or Harrit the blacksmith? Or anyone who decides on recruitment?", dwarf's dimples showed in a natural smile. She had an energizing glow in her eyes and something childlike in the moves. "I'm Dagna from the Circle of Ferelden. The arcanist. I sent a letter over a month ago, though I'm afraid it could get stuck somewhere in Edgehall. I didn't know that Haven was destroyed."

The guy stepped a half step forward, giving Dorian a rather sweeping glance. "Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Amalric Trevelyan of Ostwick. I used to live in the Circle thereby, and now... I'm looking for opportunities in research and adventure."

As soon as Dorian recited his introduction and informed that they should have addressed sister Leliana for admission, the dwarf nearly pranced from joy. "A real Tevinter? Are you a mage? Maybe a noble? Is it true that the Circle in Minrathous is half the size of Denerim? Are the upper condignations of the Argent Spire really kept from falling apart by endless chants of enslaved spirits? Are the Juggernauts by the city gates a couple of ancient dwarven golems? All these stories sound so otherwordly, and I've never had a chance to verify them!" The Imperium had always been an irresistible curiosity to its strangers... unless they met its people. As far as the books were concerned, the Southerners could learn most from well-intentioned but scattered and superficial tales of travelers like Brother Genitivi. Tavern gossips rolled like snowballs until they made Tevinter into an exotic marvel full of deadly dangers, fascinating only inasmuch as it seemed unreachable.

"You could _let_ him answer at least", serah Amalric cheered.

"O-oh, I'm sorry. I get easily agitated whenever I'm on the move. Life in Orzammar used to be so... static. Boring. Smith caste this, smith caste that. Blah. Magic is so much more exciting."

"So, both of you are from the Circle? How curious", Dorian tutted.

"Aye! I caused quite a stir, being a dwarf and all", the lady giggled. "Enchanters are so limited in their perspective. Slow to admit how much they can learn from us."

Visitors' stomachs rumbled in unison, reminding Dorian of his unfinished chore. "Yes, I know!", lady Dagna poked her own belly, for a change. "I definitely need a snack. Can't think with an empty stomach." The man yawned and scratched his light brown stubble that completed the weary traveler image. Dorian stirred his porridge, hoping for it to magically become edible. The new visitors sat along and chose from Cabot's menu. For them, even that swill would seem fine.

"How long have you been travelling together?", he asked. "Sounds like a bit of the world between Ostwick and Orzammar."

"I was staying in Kirkwall for some time to help reduce effects of the Circle catastrophe", serah Trevelyan explained between bites of rye bread. "Then I heard about another catastrophe", he chortled, albeit only half-heartedly. "The news spread that the Inquisition was recruiting. So, I got on the first ship to Denerim."

"Actually, Kirkwall is where we first met. I've made home in Tantervale, you see", Lady Dagna said.

"That's almost in the Imperium! A real throw at the deep end. It's uplifting to see such a response to Inquisition's clarion call", Dorian nodded.

"I study the Veil, especially the impact which both mages and templars have on its structure. Kirkwall was fascinating, in a dangerous way. Still, I was dying to see the Breach up close." Could it be that the Circle of Ostwick didn't discourage its people from being bold, even if only outwardly?

"And I'm going to master the arcane arts insofar as a dwarf can. Revolutionise enchantment. I've read every book on runes in the Circle of Ferelden, but it's in unusual situations like now where I can finally find a _real_ challenge", lady Dagna pointed her finger in the air. Surely, dwarves admitted in the Circles were few and far between, if such things even happened in history. They needed a solid reason to let a dwarf in, unless the demographic shortfall struck them really hard. "What about you? Why come all the way from Tevinter?", she asked.

"I was hoping to talk some reason into certain misguided people from my country. Apart from debunking our reputation with my friendliness, high moral standards and irresistible personal charm."

"The recapture of Redcliffe from that corrupted magister... how unfortunate", the man sighed. "I hope all the mages will be safe now."

"For now, they've been furnishing the northern tower. Whether that turns out a decoration disaster, it's up to them", Dorian shuffled his dishes away. _Vishante kaffas_. He was supposed to help Ranalle transport the alchemical equipment. The dull, backbreaking work was the most forgettable, but it gained the mage tower more and more decency every hour. Dorian excused himself in front of the visitors and headed for towards three stories of stonework overlooking the entire courtyard. Battlements connected the tower with the garden and a line of chambers above it, then through the throne room balcony, to reach the library wing and its wonders. In that district of the castle, they could live an work as they liked – not without templars, but Cullen's enforced escort seemed more frightened of the captives than the other way around.

"Here's the sleeping beauty!", Dorian's elven colleague mocked from the courtyard, holding an alembic larger than her head. The quartermaster gathered a few masons, blacksmith's apprentices, guards off duty and mages. Behind them, wagons of furniture and equipment were being unloaded onto the ground. Thank the Maker, they installed a provisional lift along the battlements so that they didn't have to push everything up the stairs. Alexius's materialised ambition met its future, piled up on a muddy courtyard to be dinted and scratched against hard walls, chopped and dumped into a fireplace if redundant. The reckless zeal showed by the carriers looked as if they were taking their revenge on Alexius himself. Magister's pet nutwood desk (apparently, the desk came _second_ after Felix on the list of Alexius's favourites) nearly lost its top in a knee-deep puddle when its carriers slipped on the muddy ground. Dorian wielded two arcane tome stands like spears, wondering whom he should have stabbed had they broken any of the pure quartz amplifiers. Dwarves kept moving chests filled with enchanting crucibles and staff cleansing stones. Mason Gatsi scrutinized a jet rock sundial, still resting in the carriage, under every angle. Dorian's back started getting uncomfortably humid under the sunlight as soon as he grabbed a man-sized armillary sphere. Back home, devices like this one were still present in the old streets, along with summoning sites paved right into the city plazas.

"Let me help with that", someone behind his back made the sphere slightly lighter. Well, well, wasn't that the lad from Ostwick. When seen up close on the bright battlements, he seemed to have the most ridiculously blue eyes of a sitting duck. And so, the first impression Dorian had made was to remain grumpy and sweaty.

"We're staying, Dagna and I", he said. "And we might end up working together. I mean, _you_ and we."

"Congratulations. Looks like tomorrow we're beating the carpets", Dorian tried to get a better grip on the tool's ornamented brass stand without touching the vulnerable hoops. Every branch of magic had its quirks, but the astronomical devices were the most inconvenient and disproportionate of them all.

At last, the final lift course reached the battlement top. Half the work was done. Dorian sat on the nearest chest and breathed out a cloud of steam.

"I meant work with _magic_. I took an extensive study in the Spirit school. If Enchanter Fiona permits, I might get a chance to investigate... all of this. Magister's magic in Recliffe, the Breach, the Veil. Isn't it marvellous?"

Dorian wasn't sure which he should have given away first: the part that implied a "yes" or the part that implied a "no". He flicked his hands off and returned to work. The tower couldn't match any proper Circle in its vastness, but the walls were tall enough to add entresoles on each floor. That was where the mages would live, a real hive embedded in a stone tower. Hopefully, the tightness of premisses wouldn't foreshadow the tightness of customs.

All the magical supply was supposed to go to the adjoined chambers raised in a battlement recess where a stairway dived into the gardens. As everything built under Gatsi's supervision, the tower extension looked like it had always been there.

"Where's lady Dagna?", Dorian asked.

"She couldn't run fast enough when they showed her to the Undercroft forge", the guy sighed.

"Let it serve her well. She has most original prospects."

Serah Ostwick loitered about for a while, helping Dorian position bookcases and lecterns where the study would be. Ranalle was busy setting up the potion storage room.

"How about we grab a beer later? I'd like to meet more mages, or other interesting people", the newcomer asked Dorian at last.

"That isn't a terrible idea", Dorian nodded at Ranalle coursing with crates full of poppy red health potions. _Nothing_ sounded better like a beer after a day of irksome labour usually meant for commoners. "Here's my acquaintance, one of the Fereldan mages. And here's our new colleague from Ostwick who would like to use some good company in the evening."

"A newcomer? Already hanging over Tevinter's head?", Ranalle sized the lad up.

"You spend too much time with Adan", Dorian scolded her.

"I could invite _him_ ", she smirked.

"Let us save Adan's optimism for the doomsday eve."

"I could talk to Dara. And Minaeve. And Lysas from Redcliffe. We can fix up a little party. I've heard the crossbow dwarf is holding a game of Wicked Grace tonight. Maybe the barkeep will serve something decent if the mighty merchant from Kirkwall pays for once."

Ranalle's choice of acquaintances wasn't exactly Dorian's pair of shoes. Not that he'd dislike them. But faces around Skyhold reminded him of the threats faced thus far. Inquisitor's party saved Adan, the apothecary, and Minaeve, the beast researcher, from underneath a burning cart with reagent jars during the battle in Haven. Hadn't Solas frozen everything in the eyesight, half of the settlement would have turned into a messy pulp in a blink of an eye. And Lysas... How would they drink and tell silly stories together while Dorian still held a memory of Lysas muttering out of his mind in the Redcliffe castle? At times, even sister Leliana seemed to glare at him with the accusations she had but hadn't voiced. Apparently, one could rejoice seeing the saved ones only _after_ the threat had really been obviated.

Hanging out with some fresh blood would do him good, apparently. At least as long as they were spared the stifling severity of the stakes. If they were really supposed to conduct common research, someone would have to make them understand, and Dorian felt less and less suiting for the role. He'd only just started throwing off the futile hope for Alexius's improvement. He still hadn't asked the most important person in the grand story: what was the influence of knowledge the two of them shared? Would it help them or would it poison them?


	16. Little schemes among great things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets involved in Inquisition's affairs deeper than he expected. He decides to make use of his new acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly about banter and tavern fluff. Contains mild inebriation.

How much talking was needed to get a group of people working on anything, even _remotely_ hazardous, when magic was in concern? More than it took to arrange a marriage in Tevinter, as it seemed. Dorian took his time in the war room with his arms and legs crossed. He was probably dragged into it only to be given the burden of letting the newcomers in on the situation. They were supposed to get quartered and see Dorian again in the tavern. But, at this pace of the talks, he could hardly hope for any specified instructions by evening. He was lounging on a robust chair with armrests carved to resemble Fereldans' favourite object of esthetic admiration, the dog maw. The anesthesizing warmth of the soft, cross-diamond patterned light would have lulled him to sleep, if only the other attendants weren't getting closer and closer to another circular squabble.

"Naturally, competent and enthusiastic researchers are always welcome among us", Enchanter Fiona spoke, "but I'm worried that such a weighty task is given to the people from outside Inquisition's own mage community... No offence meant against Lady Enchanter and Lord Pavus. But how are we supposed to prove ourselves in loyalty and merit if we're being brushed aside from something so important?"

"You've already taken a finger, dear. It amazes me how quickly you reach out after the whole hand", Vivienne tutted with her arms crossed. The clicking of her heels tore Dorian away from his near-slumber numbness. Amazing how great a fuss could be made as soon as the former rebel mages showed first signs of initiative.

"You were allowed to dispose of magister's goods however you wish. When it comes to his knowledge or research... we cannot allow any exchange between Alexius and you to remain without supervision. Even if the roles are supposedly reversed", Cassandra addressed the Grand Enchanter. Apparently, it escaped the glorified advisers' notice that investigating Alexius's developments could involve _asking_ him a few questions. Inquisitor's verdict must have been a nuisance.

"The amulet has been neutralised. It would take a decade to build and test another one, and I doubt that any Southern Circle is in possession of the mere resources to start", Dorian left the cozy corner to take a swaggering stroll towards the war table.

"Both our new guests were members of the Circles. Our Tevinter companion is no barbarian either, though perhaps accustomed to somewhat... different ethics. You surely aren't trying to say that they're any less viable than your followers?", Vivienne asked.

"I shall remind you that the faction of Aequitarians, renowned for their interest in undisturbed study, tipped the balance in rebellion's favour. These people are the furthest from the fear-mongering nonsense that has been spread about us", Fiona steeled her voice. "Distrust me as you like, but the only thing my people need now is more trust. A benefit of a doubt."

"True to that, any further constriction of the mages will not help. On the contrary, keeping them passive and dependent can only teach them _that_ much. If there's a right time to let go of the leash, it is now", Leliana chided.

"And how much familiarity with Tevinter manners would that include?", the Orlesian asked. There it went again: Beware, the Tevinters will inflate liquor prices, corrupt your children, take them away as slaves, then introduce questionable history policies. If only these weren't true most of the time... Dorian suppressed a bitter chuckle at the unexpected sting.

"Hardly any, my Lady. There would be none, if not for my concern for the dining etiquette." Vivienne's brows drew together into tiny wrinkles, likely imagining a crushing critique of Dorian's _manners_. "The Inquisitor's verdict makes Alexius some sort of indentured servant, yes? Which means he won't let out a breathe of his own without a templar puffing on his neck first. Besides, in his state of mind I wouldn't suspect him to be either useful _or_ dangerous. Let us not exaggerate the threat."

Admittedly, Inquisitor's verdict made things more convoluted than they needed to be. Her favour for the mages could have turned ill-considered and superficial, hadn't she aimed to loosen the collar on their necks. They weren't sure how to treat Alexius: as a servant, a prisoner, an agent? Had he remained a prisoner, mages' license to use him would turn out meaningless. Had he become anything more than a prisoner, the guardians of mage safety would have clamoured recklessness: a clueless elf unwittingly furthering the threat she had sworn do ease.

Pentaghast sighed. "Don't ask me to take your word for granted, Tevinter. But I suppose there's no point in discussing this matter further without walking in circles. For the sake of progress, we must trust each other, however frail this trust will be. The Inquisitor shall gather the manpower to defeat our enemy. The mages will provide knowledge. It would be the best to gather everyone, not just Fiona's mages, under the initiative. This calls for a group leader independent and reliable enough not to indulge in the animosities between the mages. Who seems to have the spirit, the merit, the right intentions to lead the group and gather all the results together? Who will make good use of all the information we gather?"

To make the most valid candidature _more_ evident, Dorian would have needed to lunge at the war table short of his smallclothes and perform a dance choreographed from Cullen's operation routes. He swept the room with a soliciting gaze, his pose straightened up and the chest stuck out a bit, like an _alumnus_ being decorated. Yes, now, _do_ say it out loud, ladies... The pleasure of anticipation felt almost wrong. Leliana's gaze fixed upon him first. Vivienne opened her mouth to deliver some sharp retort, but she reconsidered something deep inside.

"Since you're so experienced with Alexius's methods, and seem quite assured of your own merit, perhaps _you_ should overlook the mages' work", Cassandra said.

"Is _either_ even a question?"

The Nevarran withheld an old, familiar grunt as if she had second thoughts. Their bad. Hadn't they wanted to hear him _bragging_ , they shouldn't have tickled his ambition.

"You were a scholar back in Tevinter, weren't you?", Leliana echoed. "We don't need an average Circle mage, but a person with this kind of experience. You aren't involved in the mage-templar conflict or in the official Tevinter agenda. Your involvement serves the Inquisition well. You give us a fresh pair of eyes."

"Your innocent  _naivet_ _é_ doesn't cease to amaze me, dear", Vivienne snarled.

"Not so long ago you told us off us for aligning with a Tevinter mage, and now you pair us up with one?", Fiona shook her head. "I hope this isn't an attempt to make a cruel joke of us."

To return anywhere close to the Academy after those years, with a subject that guaranteed success and hearing even after the whole turmoil had ended. The lustre in the social circles... A chance to revive the spirit of Alexius's ideas concerning a fair, inclusive Academy offering the best education in Thedas... Giving Fiona a few ideas can't have hurt, if only it could help improve the quality of mages' existence. Dorian's name would have slowly returned to Tevinter on the Inquisition's wave. Father would have pissed himself, Mother would have sobered up from shock.

"The Inquisition unites members of every origin, and everyone's entrusted with their share of responsibility. Perhaps authority shouldn't be bestowed upon those who _await_ it. Perhaps it belongs to those who are driven by different desires. I'm willing to trust in Inquisitor's and Leliana's recommendation", Cassandra's eyes slid off towards Vivienne. What a lovely intrigue of astringency unveiled before his eyes.

"When you're in the limelight, the _only_ thing you can do is show your best... A bold move, Left Hand. Let us hope it takes us _forward_ ", Vivienne smoothed her chin. "Besides, I'd rather bear with the the Tevinter than any of the poor people still shocked after magister's intrusion", she glanced at Fiona. " _Or_ that poorly robed apostate anchorite, Maker forbid."

"I was already wondering if I'm purposefully ignored as a source of expertise... But since we've established _that_ , I feel flattered, and much obliged", Dorian bowed.

"Don't get too smug, Tevinter. This work will give you more headache than credit", the Nevarran said. Gathering the best of Circle-trained spirit mages, anyone who had experience with tears in the Veil, Fade physicists or magical process theorists... how could it be anything but exciting? But, what was there to be expected from someone dedicated to the sword, not to the book?

"In the next three days, we'd like you to interview the mages to form a small group of associates. By 'we' I mean the Inquisitor, Leliana, Cullen and myself. Naturally, we expect a report with notes of recommendation."

"Worry not, Lady Seeker. All I ask for now is a word of advice from Enchanter Fiona", he bowed his head to the elf. "For all I can admit to know, I do not know your people or their limits."

As soon as the conference was over, Dorian paraded out of the war room to borrow the first revision of Veil theories he could find. Something for the sleepless nights. Next, he wandered off to Lady Belle's merchant stall to check if the wine from Montfort had arrived. Also for the sleepless nights. The sun started hiding behind the ramparts, ending a day of strain and surprise. Now was the time for the lovely cake icing, a chance to chat the newcomers up about magical endeavours.

Perennial habituées of the tavern held a discourse about an archery contest that was supposed to take place on Wintersend. Cabot served the usual swill, two silvers a cup. Considering that insult less troubling than the effort to provide himself some quality drinking, Dorian conceded. The huge Qunari was guffawing on the other side of the stairs, letting his beefy pectorals and unrestricted belly fat wiggle like jellied meat on a silver plate. His company of mercenaries skirted him around like chickens by their hen, recalling their old assignments somewhere deep in the Marches. The grey's lieutenant moved a few chairs away from his brigade to quell wine lazily while gazing upon the minstrel. Maryden was pitching her lute by the fireplace, awaiting commissions from the tired, thirsty folk while Varric catechized her on her knowledge of epic poems.

Sneaking past the merry company, Dorian climbed the stairs to settle down in a more peaceful part of the tavern. Ranalle leant against the balustrade, scanning the room below for other companions invited for the evening. She nodded at a long table deeper inside, already occupied by the fresh folk. Ser Trevelyan shuffled his robes against the table as he was freeing a spot for Dorian.

"Have you two been lingering here for long?"

"We've only just unpacked. A thankless task, but there isn't much more we can do today. Where have you been lingering?", Dagna asked.

"I stopped by in the war room as the council endlessly blabbered how they should implement Inquisitor's verdict concerning the mages. To my own surprise, I was appointed to a _function_. As the chief research associate regarding the Breach and other endeavours of our enemy, the Venatori", he lounged on the bench.

"Congratulations from the magical smithcraft advisor", the dwarven lady leant over the table to shake Dorian's hand with youthful vigor.

"Careful, we have important people out here. Does that mean you buy everyone else a round?", the Ostwickan smiled.

"Heck, be my guests. My pocket won't get any _more_ leaky from a handful of silvers disappearing", Dorian shrugged off. "Those tiny moments of well-deserved, unapologetic satisfaction do foster my spirit of philanthropy. Besides, I will need assistance. And I'd rather resolve this matter without all the petty officialism."

Ranalle brought a bunch of humans and elves in uniform Circle robes: Lysas the elf with a mullet haircut, a woman with an extensive tattoo on her face introduced as one of countless Amell clan members, some other names and faces Dorian would have instantly forgotten. Within a moment, the barmaid brought their mugs and bottles in a firm, generous embrace. They joined the tables and shared their introductions, then the usual tavern commotion ensued: nug roast on large tin plates, Fereldan cheese, drinks passed on through the table, complaints about bad weather and joint pain, friendly banter and Skyhold gossip. The buzzing of excited voices and the acrid whiff of dwarven beer never failed to elicit a strange sense of relaxation near Dorian's stomach. They shared a toast for their little success, for the mages and for the Inquisition.

"Last but not least, to the guy who came from Tevinter to end up in this watering hole as one of us. Who helped stop the magister in Redcliffe and, like many of us, burned his hands while closing the Breach. To the good things we all yet need to see if we trust each other", Ranalle spoke up, standing on the bench. Cheers raised along the table as she emptied about half of her mug in a single approach.

"Andraste's knickers, Ranalle, I didn't know you had it in you", long-eared Lysas pulled her down onto his knee, making her hoot and snort with laughter. She landed seamlessly, threatening to spill her beer onto the Amell. "The gift of speech or the gift of chugging?", Ranalle answered as soon as she returned to her place on the bench. In the midst of these antics, someone planted a heavy pat on Dorian's shoulder.

"I had no idea we were dealing with a hero", Trevelyan made those large begging eyes again.

"Well... There's no need to get all mushy about it. That's what I came to do. Be the handsome, good guy who makes up for entire country's reputation", Dorian tattled with a tiny surplus of self-consciousness while returning the shoulder-pats to the Ostwickan. For all he knew, _he_ was the one getting close to the hazardous field of touchy-feely. People who barely knew him seemed so eager about cheering, appreciation... acceptance. But that _wasn't_ exactly a moment for syrupy affection or effusive gratitude.

"So, Lord Trevelyan, if I recall correctly, you've mentioned something about work that could use your magical education. I must admit, my thirst for an intellectualised conversation has remained unquenched lately. And I'm rather interested in hearing about your experience with rifts an similar phenomena, whether it is Inquisition's official business or not." Dorian ordered the second round of beer for them, stretched his back further and interlaced his fingers behind his head, letting the liquor warmth spread further across his body.

Amalric Trevelyan turned about and tilted his head to show a couple jerky scars running across his right temple, rising from his brow, splitting up towards the ear. "Can you see that? I tried to approach a rift before it opened up and drew demons out. I didn't dodge fast enough, nor did I expect the rift to be so... luminous. The light blinded me to shooting viridis shards." The surrounding mages moved closer to gaze at the scars with the amazement of unrealised adventurers.

"Goodness! Are you fine now?", Ranalle asked.

"Haven't noticed any lasting effects... except for the commendable battle scars."

"Wait. You've extracted _what_? Viridis?", Dorian raised an eyebrow.

"The substance that crystallises when it comes out of the Fade. It's theorised to normally remain in a fluid state betw-"

"Yes, I get it. I'm more concerned with your prospect of ripping it out of a half-steady rift."

"I _have_ gathered the samples, all right? I've even brought them along to be processed by the Formari."

"You've had fresh viridis samples and I didn't know about it? Lord Dorian, I request that you immediately enlist this man to your research group so that he _has to_ write his discoveries down and pass them on. For science", Dagna jested.

"I shall take your request into consideration", Dorian nodded in return. "Have you heard? No more secrets when it comes to Fade rifts, or you risk offence to Lady Dagna." Trevelyan uttered something in between a swear and a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Does that include simulating the Veil as a membrane that _wobbles_ at a fairly steady pace? That hypothesis could make me a senior enchanter. Treating the Veil like... a weatherfish taken out of the water", he tried to wiggle his hands to imitate the wobbling.

" _Especially_ the Veil as limpy fish!", Dagna answered. "What we need to progress are bold metaphors that break our habits in conceptur... errr... you know!"

Dorian couldn't help but chuckle a little. Next to them, Ranalle and other Fereldans were discussing local brewed beverages. Slowly failing to catch up with her capability in abstract thought, Dagna joined in, preaching about the virtues of dwarven stout.

"That's the best thing that has _ever_ got out of Orzammar. They sometimes spice it up with a special type of mushrooms", Dagna squinted with delight, giving herself a tiny beer foam mustache. Dorian peeked into his mug and gagged a tiny bit, suddenly paying more attention to his very interiors.

" _Mushrooms_. I think I have discovered what has always distressed me about Cabot's choice in beers. I... cannot believe I've been poisoning myself for so long. Should I be hallucinating by now?"

"Don't be so dramatic, you'll be fine until your third pint. After that, even a Qunari would sway on their knees", Ranalle's voice resonated from inside her wooden mug. "Many types of mushrooms are edible without any side effects. Honey teeters, for instance. You can slice them and fry in deep butter so they become nice and crispy."

Ser Ostwick sighed with a nostalgic grin. "The Vimmark forests in the North don't have many teeters, but copper oysters grow on every tree. We turn them into paste and make little fried dumplings."

"I must try it one day. Preferably when I need a sudden sick leave", Dorian smirked.

"I could say the same about good old Imperial fish and celery soup", Lysas intervened. "Magister's cooks brewed it in Redcliffe... until you _dropped_ ", the elven mage's expression went flat from the very memory of the Venatori nourishment.

"Egad! Celery soup destroys the dreams of youth."

"So does Fereldan mulligan. Absolutely abhorrent. Let's drink to Fereldan mulligan", Trevelyan raised a toast. Agreeing murmurs along the table followed. "May its fusty smell never find any of you!", someone on the other side of the table called.

Loud cheers underneath brought their attention to the game of Wicked Grace, apparently only just being finished in the centre of the tavern's main hall. THe merry mages watched from above, challenging the balustrade by the stairs. A group of people sat in repose by a large table, observing how Varric still dealt the cards out between Qunari soldier's _silent_ companion and the broody, beardy Warden Blackwall. Maryden caught up with a song describing the card allegories. _Knight of the rose his intent won't expose, heart of a rascal telling you sweet prose..._  A simple tune rooted inside Dorian's mind easily, wandering here and there between his attempts to pay attention to the game. Some tipsy mage next to Dorian had the nerve to poke him in the ribcage and read the cards out in a dramatic whisper: "Look. Blackwall's going for _three angels_ now!"

"Hey! No spoiling the deals! You're louder than you think, friend", Varric shouted back from below. Unable to tell whether three angels meant good or bad, Dorian backed away from the crowd and found Lord Trevelyan to ask him the serious question:

"So, are we set? Would you like to enrich Inquisition's little scientific playground with your viridis samples and your merit in ich-kh-tyologhy, or, anything relevant?"

"Just show me the way to the library", Trevelyan reached out for another firm Free Marcher handshake.


	17. Unlikely antiquaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian meets his group of mage helpers, but they can't do much for now. While Trevelyan and he search the attic for the sake of science, an inconspicuous but important visit slips their attention until it obviously infuriates Seeker Cassandra.

The encounter with Fiona went easier than expected. "There's no reason to distrust the saviour of Redcliffe", she ascertained. But behind her statement there was the dreariness of suspicion that marked a rather fumbling tongue. _That_ could hardly concern him. It was something else that caused him jitter like a Circle newcomer.

"I was wondering, how has Alexius been doing? I suppose _getting along_ is too great a term."

"The Inquisitor showed him kindness I don't understand. Alexius himself seems to wish that he'd been treated worse. My people are divided about his joining, and their ideas on what he can do to compensate have been... interesting", the woman replied. Dorian was a bit tired of people beating about the bush because of his compatriots' repute of sharing too much _in whispers_.

"I'm voicing my concern as his former apprentice. _And_ arguably the _last_ friend he could still hope for. Would you mind indulging me with some of these ideas?", he pressed on. Fiona knitted every muscle on her face so hard that her ears nearly wiggled.

"We've decided there's no place for him among us. He should stay in the dungeon cell, spending his day hours in his place of work", Fiona tapped at the balustrade. "We were hoping to use the magister as a tutor in the absolute basics of magic. The Circles as we know may be gone, but we mustn't leave the gifted children on their own in this horrible turmoil."

"Years ago, Alexius was a dedicated teacher and a great mentor. If you manage to restart a single spark of his enthusiasm... you won't be disappointed", Dorian's fingers smoothed the cool granite underneath.

"Since you've known Alexius so well, perhaps you could try to... steer him in the desirable direction, from a lack of a better word?"

"I've never been capable of changing his mind on trivialities, let alone of steering the boat. My presence in Redcliffe must be atrocious from his point of view. So, I'd rather wait a bit. Until he's in a better frame of mind", Dorian leant forward, supported on his elbows, and settled his eyes down upon Solas's new fresco. A black, tower-like guise holding a golden orb that set the mountains in the foreground on fire. So, that was how the fellow recorded their story – in the language of colours. Black and red ochre were painters' favourite code for the great Tevinter sin and all things connected: evil emerging from the Fade, bloodshed, betrayal and devouring pyres. Gold was their pride, green – the nostalgia of what every empire had stolen from its enemies and subjects.

"I understand", a faint sigh escaped from the Enchanter as she dropped her head, faking interest in the frescos. "I have the key to his cell and you hold one to his knowledge. Who would have imagined."

The first group meeting took place in the mage tower's penthouse, in a seminar hall quite spacious for Skyhold's capability. Dorian rubbed his arms, having armoured himself in an additional fur vest, cursing the whistling, disapproving chill that circled the creaking lectern podium. As if the furnishings confiscated from Redcliffe weren't enough to scold him for taking up Alexius's legacy unwanted, he needed the wind to chill him to the the tips of his toes. So, there was Dorian the brave bear, or soon to become one, had the temperature plunged even lower. The idea of sleeping the rest of the winter through didn't sound silly at all. He had already been told that he was _exaggerating_ on his third requisition for quality furs.

Enchanter Tamsine from Val Chevin needed to disguise her facial features behind thick, glary, mask-like make-up even outside Orlesian courts. One had to admit, the trick made her face completely illegible. She shrugged as she moved around the room, ruffling her feathery stamped fustian jacket – another innocent victim of cold. It was only thanks to that hint of eccentricity that Dorian realised how painfully uniform the rest of them were: the same grey frock all the way, with or without the Circle heraldry. It was all clear, all of sudden: Leliana recommended him as the group leader hoping for some secret extramural lectures in the wardrobe. Not to mention that the majority of mages were bound to freeze to death unless they lined their robes up with thick cotton fluff. Amalric, one decent man in the room, picked a thick wool garb shirt and a smooth leather doublet made of something tawny and Fereldan, possibly the local ram.

"The scouts still haven't secured a new path to Haven?", Tamsine ascertained, inquired, and criticised, a bit of each at once.

"Not to my knowledge. The avalanche caused by the Inquisitor swept a whole army away, after all", he answered.

"That's most unfortunate. The Temple ruins can't suffer any further damage", Tamsine's shoulders drooped a little. "I wonder if the Inquisition is planning to retrieve anything from the Penitent's Crossing. It was such a fine place for pilgrimage."

Another addition to the group, Enchanter Gwenaelle, scrutinized the map of Haven against a beam of light in the company of the freshly shaved Trevelyan. She was a woman in her prime age, with a bent back posture, ruddy cheeks and swirling silvering hair, as if every aspect of her appearance had adapted to being rubbed down by the winds of the Storm Coast.

Amalric rubbed his cheeks and muttered outrage at the implications of scouts' drabbles.

"The blast wave didn't just sweep everything away... it made the Fade materialise with immense force and speed. At least that would explain a solid rock ring on the temple hill. And then, there's a pillar of _red lyrium_ in the centre of it all. The same type that was allegedly found under Kirkwall as a _figurine_ , surrounded by a great deal of dreadful stories", he mused. As he stepped right in the middle of a flickering game of dust fractions, the irises of his eyes became nearly white in a strange enlightened incisiveness.

"It's the same type that has been used on the templars who didn't leave the Order. We've received a report from the group that infiltrated templars' headquarters in Therinfal Redoubt. Our courtesy copy", Gwenaelle lifted a parchment encumbered by two crimson seals meaning approval from Leliana and Cullen.

"We should receive more information on red lyrium from Arcanist Dagna as soon as we can secure samples from the explosion site", Dorian replied. "I suggest that we follow three lines of research for now: Corypheus, his orb, and the current condition of the Veil. I should investigate our enemy's identity, history and allegiance myself as soon as I establish necessary connections in Tevinter."

"But our knowledge about the Veil is related to the nature and origin of the explosion. When you try to sift flour through a dense sieve, you need to shake it once in a while. The Veil can withstand tiny ruptures without tearing apart", Tamsine lectured. "But since the Conclave, it _has_ been tearing apart. The explosion must have done something to its very structure."

"I'd use anything about the number and size of rifts before and after the Breach has been closed", Lysas broke out of his silent coverture between two wall book shelves. "I can take care of the statistics and make some further predictions."

"Our friend Solas claims that he can locate ancient Veil-measuring artifacts and reprogram them to strengthen the border between realms. It appears that he, a hedge mage, shares quite a bit of knowledge with the Dalish keepers. Perhaps we should aim to reconstruct these bits of knowledge by ourselves to see if the apostate is correct in his suggestions", Dorian mentioned. Somehow, finding someone Dalish _and_ helpful _and_ knowing magic sounded more likely than Dorian successfully pulling apostate's tongue. Not that Solas would take any human prying on his affairs lightly.

"How many of these artifacts have we already discovered? Is there any chance that we could study one of them?", Amalric asked.

"Three are up and working around the castle. Another four remain in the Hinterlands. One is broken, and I'd rather _not_ blow another section of our precious castle up trying to restore it."

"Don't know about you, but I wouldn't try to restore _anything_ by blowing it up", the Ostwickan grinned.

"There is a chance of us doing some field work in Crestwood, but we depend on Inquisitor's military mission in that matter. They have a wyvern lair and a wonderful rift splitting Lake Calenhad apart. Unforgettable romantic evenings guaranteed, with the highlight of the programme being Veil anomalies followed by neverending waves of the undead", Dorian envisioned with a broad demonstrating gesture.

"Actually, going to Crestwood isn't such a bad idea. We could warm up and do some field work further from explosion's direct impact", Tamsine chirped.

"Sadly for us, Crestwood is out of reach until our forces deal with all the undead and marauders in the fort nearby. Unless you opt for a refreshing siege along the way."

"I've had enough sieges for a lifetime, thank you", Lysas snapped back. "I don't mind spending the next few years nose-deep in a good book."

"In that case, feel free to do your calculations. That won't hurt", Dorian nodded.

"Hmm. If we have nothing better to do for now, let me see if I can do anything about that broken artifact", Trevelyan pleaded.

"What _you_ can do? We should bring it here and share our observations. All of them", Gwenaelle sneered in response.

"Already bickering like a family, aren't you?", Dorian crossed his arms, wondering if he should let some healthy competition unwind. Trevelyan's subtle display of cockiness reminded Dorian of himself from before certain life turnarounds, which made the whole concept of the Ostwickan companion obviously more interesting. "Getting the artifact shouldn't cause us much trouble. There must be some sort of junk room in the castle, a place to toss all the things that look valuable enough not to be recast into horseshoes. We could play meddling antiquaries for a while", Dorian tapped his chin with a finger. "A humble beginning, yes, but it's always something."

Amalric's hand ran along the collarbone underneath his woolly shirt. He kept scratching his neck and chin until they burned up with flushed up marks. Not the only one who would have been much more comfortable besprinkled with silks and velvet.

The group dispersed, mostly returning to the mage tower. Dorian wrapped himself up against the timeless wind in the upper castle stories, tucking a fluffy fur hat onto his forehead until he could barely see with his own eyes. He could shed tears just from the gale-force of the wind, and these stingy tears would always freeze and stick his eyelids together. The weather did its best to thwart all Dorian's efforts to look good.

"Itchy Fereldan plaid?", Dorian asked, muffled by multiple coils of the scarf covering his mouth. It was one of these days when the air stung in one's face even without wind. "Some types of clothing arrive with a free willpower training. Got to appreciate Quartermaster Threnn's military drill."

"They said it all the time in Ostwick. They wouldn't admit that the Circle was simply low on funds", Amalric muttered back, barely moving his jaw. The poor thing was freezing to the bone as well. They took the stairs down to the courtyard, and that meant taking a roundabout way to the quartermaster's office.

"You don't look like you're in modest circumstances."

"I'm the fourth child of a noble family which is in a very good standing with the Chantry. The Circle hasn't pampered me on this account, but at least I know there is another life."

"And which life have you enjoyed more?"

"I'm not sure. Suppose it's always better if you're from a noble house. But as a mage, I was an Isolationist. I didn't much care about anything else than my studies. Then the Circle eventually fell apart, I had to find a different place to live."

"So you ended up in Kirkwall?", Dorian tilted his head. "A most curious place to find one's peace of mind in studious seclusion."

"That's a long story."

"I could listen. It's a long way across the castle."

"You don't know what you're asking", Amalric cackled.

"I'd like to know who I work with. Nobody mentioned shameful bottle-spin confessions."

"Fine", the man sighed. "As you may know, the Circle in Ostwick has never really joined the rebellion. Our First Enchanter chose a safe path. She gave more prominence to the Loyalists and the templars. Of course, not everyone agreed."

Down by the tavern entrance, where a few bramble bushes by the curbstone pretended a deliberately planted hedgerow, a cloaked figure was prowling and shopping around, kicking the dirt and viewing the ramparts. The way Inquisition's network operated, the figure already had a few agents' eyes on them. But for the time being, they were left alone. And so was the best for Dorian.

"While they did their best to make our Circle appear peaceful on the outside, the tension between the Fraternities was growing. The Libertarian folk heard about a mage army gathering far in the West, and they threatened to leave to Andoral's Reach. But that would have looked too bad in the Chantry's eyes. So the First Enchanter issued stricter regimen. The Libertarians received special treatment from the templars, which angered the Aequitarians who have always stood for an ethical life for everyone."

The mysterious guest bounced as soon as Varric Tethras walked out of the tavern, and the dwarf didn't look surprised at all. While it was expected from him to peep and eavesdrop on every important event in Skyhold, he had never been seen sneaking around with shady figures. Let alone he never sneaked such figures through the ramparts, heedless of all the guard routes, into the most ruined parts of the castle that could crumble at the slightest readjustment. Whether he was doing illegal business or trying to hide an affair, he wasn't doing good work.

"What about your faction?"

"We were compliant. We just wanted to do our work. But then they annulled the Circle in Dairsmuid. Someone got afraid that we'd have another Kirkwall soon. So a small fraction of the Libertarians staged a coup against the templars and our First Enchanter. Isn't that ironic?", Trevelyan winced. "First Enchanter died by her apprentice's hand. If it wasn't for the Teyrn's intervention, we'd all have."

On that day, the quartermaster's office was run by Threnn's assistant Morris, a jittery blond boy ever doubting his competence. He informed them that they could check the attic above his quarters where he liked to store all the findings with little use for the Inquisition.

"But you _did_ something else than sitting as quiet as a mouse, I reckon?", Dorian inquired.

"Some of us wanted to seize the opportunity and run before the situation got hopeless. We didn't expect we'd have to fight our way out. I... clashed with a templar. I broke her nose, she broke my rib", Amalric kept on explaining. "When they caught us, the remaining templars were ready to call the Annulment. But the Teyrn came in, supported by the Grand Cleric and a few Ostwickan nobles."

"Punching a templar in the face is hardly a pretext for exile. But that might just be me, coming from a place where templars are mages' thugs for hire. Is this how you deserved Kirkwall?", Dorian rang with a freshly acquired keyring to open the attic trapdoor.

"Did I mention my family's good standing with the Chantry? They pleaded for my exile not to be permanent. So that I could return home after I've repented. By rebuilding the Circles in Starkhaven and Kirkwall. But it doesn't matter now. The Nevarran Accord doesn't apply anymore. The Circles won't be rebuilt, and I won't return to Ostwick."

"Are you sure they won't think of readjusting the law to fit the tiny detail of the Circles' non-existence? That's curious."

"Maybe they do. But I'm not waiting for their pardon. I'm not going back."

The attic was the most adorable clutter of collectables. In the corner, a torn canopy. A litter with a broken pole. Who in the whole Ferelden would have used a litter for locomotion? Or was it Imperial? Choosing six slaves over one horse sounded like something the magisters back home would do. The shrubs and hills growing over the Imperial Highway gutter still could reveal the ancient treasures of Tevinter vanity. Dorian waded among dusted crates sprinkled with rodent droppings to reach a solid stone ring with some engravings. A gentle orb of light revealed a sequence of scales and constellation symbols on the fractured plate.

"Unbelievable", Dorian chimed. "Looks like a segment from the sundial that was brought along with Alexius's things. And it's a calendar. Come over here and take a look." Dorian moved on, hurdling through discharged staves and moving crates on his way. His ass sticking out while he balanced on his tiptoes or wiggled one leg must have been quite a sight.

"Shit", Amalric muttered, hitting his legs against the crates and protruding junk. "I can't match your agility."

Dorian chuckled. "Now you know you can look up to me! Or perhaps I should start giving lessons?"

"That... indeed is a calendar", Amalric took a deep breath in, as if his mind had wandered off somewhere else.

"And... isn't that our fingerling?", Dorian pointed at a familiar detail partly veiled by the torn canopy, an orb with a few crystalline structures on top left unhewn. "Well? Why don't you come over here and help me carry this damn thing to the exit. It's fairly small but made of dense solid matter, still a pain in the neck to transport."

"I feel like I've already stretched something", Trevelyan grunted.

"The sooner we get out, the more time you have to un-stretch."

"Do you sass everyone like this?", Amalric snapped.

"Only the people I like."

"Oh. Well, good to know I'm enlisted."

The Ostwickan grabbed the artifact at its base, and they hobbled out like two druffalos trying to maneuver in a potion shop. Hearing them pant and sigh as they pushed the device down the stairs, step by step, ser Morris came up to help with a wheel cart, which would have brought them more harm than help. Sadly, their polite refusal only seemed to further the quartermaster boy's insecurity.

As soon as they got outside, all that could get their attention was Cassandra Pentaghast running across the courtyard, shaking her fists and, undeniably, bawling:

"That slithery pickerel! To keep hiding him from me all along! I'll rip the dwarven runt apart as soon as I find him!"

"What's that commotion?", Amalric followed the leaping danger with his eyes. A slit creaked and opened up in a window shutter on the smithy's first floor, to be immediately closed shut again with a loud slam that immediately lured Seeker Cassandra. The dwarf had nowhere to run. She nearly battered blacksmith's doorway, likening her face to one of a charging ogre.

"Judging from the insults, it's about our dear Varric. He has landed himself in a mess again, undoubtedly", Dorian replied. "So, he really managed to hide something from the Seeker since he's been lingering about? That sounds quite impressive. I wonder if it has something to do with the..."

The next people to arrive on the courtyard were the Inquisitor herself and the mysterious cloaked person from the time prior. When the Seeker shut the smithy door behind her, the Inquisitor held her guest by their shoulder and shook her head fiercely. All in all, one should have never gotten in Cassandra's way when she lost her temper.

"Aha. There we are. I was wondering what Varric and that visitor were doing holed up between the shrubberies."

"That's... Kirkwall emblem?", Amalric squinted, tracing the cloaked figure. "That would be right. I've seen those in Hightown." Each of the Free Marches had its own glorified emblem to tell their citizens and wares from each other. Sadly, for Dorian they had always looked like the same passionless scrawling everyone could draw out of boredom.

"Are you _sure_?", Dorian hissed. "Why would Varric enrage the Seeker by bringing someone from Kirk-"

The visitor removed the hood of their cloak, showing an outstanding jet black beard embracing a bright, sunken face. Weren't they holding the artifact, Dorian would have hugged Trevelyan out of shock.  _"Vishante kaffas,_ what if it's _him!"_

"No way", Trevelyan hooted right next to Dorian's cheek. At this point, at least one head showed up in each and very window in entire Skyhold. Wood rattled inside the smithy as if somebody was flipping tables.

"Inquisitor. Hawke. Save your old friend!", Varric's head briefly flashed in the window shutter, whimpering for aid. Soon he was dragged back inside by a raging gauntlet of justice. The Inquisitor sighed and followed in, her own face crossed by an upcoming storm. The guest fidgeted for a while trying not to stand like a log when he was left alone in the courtyard. Finally, he flapped his hand in resignation and muttered something about enough people dying on his account.

Not in his wildest dreams had Dorian run so fast with a chunk of alloy that could have weighed a hundred pounds, having to match his speed with another man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baaaah, I've only begun writing Amalric, and I'm already overthinking and killing my writing routine.
> 
> [This thread on reddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/dragonage/comments/45tzkr/dai_spoilers_the_ostwick_circle_of_magi/) sums up the canon information about mage Trevelyan's backstory and the safest implications pretty nice.


	18. Flavours of isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amalric has itchy trigger finger for the elven artifact. Dorian ponders on Solas (he does it often, doesn't he?), the meanders of history, and Hawke's arrival. The Inquisition announces its next steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The speed at which I managed to produce this episode is unusual, considering that what I did was mostly trying not to fall asleep in front of the keyboard after my third coffee. Leaving everything to the unconscious doesn't have to give the best results...
> 
> At least I'm slowly getting out of the filler & exposition part.
> 
> In this story, the mage premises in Skyhold are much greater than we see in-game. It's a bit of Skyhold Sims.
> 
> The episode contains mentions of the ancient Tevinter Imperium conquering and oppressing elves.

Just a moment prior they were panting and snorting like young brats, and taking malicious delight in not being caught in the eye of the storm. Under the pretext of avoiding the wild hunt on Varric's hide, it sounded reasonable to stay in the mage tower for a while. Staring at the artifact or staring at a book – it mattered little. Amalric nestled by the window and gazed outside, resting his chin on his hand. With his temple unnecessarily chilled against the window pane, and a dreary expression perfectly corresponding with the solid shroud of snow clouds outside, he had a wicked charm of a Chantry choir boy upraising his noble thoughts into heavens. An innocent mask of this sort rarely held on for too long, especially on a fairly pretty face. Quite a few nice boys had compromised their perfect guise tempted by Dorian's gorgeous physique and rebellious demeanor, but those were very old times. Dorian was growing less and less reluctant to the thought that, all things considered, he rather missed the idle months spent drinking, seducing, writing letters never meant to be sent, and staring at the bustle of Minrathous streets wondering if he could ever find another patron like Alexius. If only Dorian's head wasn't as foggy now as it had been in these strange times.

He ran his fingers along the crystal-like protrusions on the orb, half-hoping for a tiniest pinch of static charge to recoil. The shape in itself was mesmerising – subtle cubic sediment building up and up into chunks of unusual regularity, like a maze of tiny iridescent paths descending deeper inside the orb. In the presence of the unplumbed magical tool, his humbled intellect refused to help solving the great mystery. On the contrary, all it did was cause him mild stitching pain in his _thymus_.

"I don't know. You'd expect a sigil, an arcane circle. Anything. This artifact looks completely plain. At least to me", Dorian muttered to himself.

"You said it's elven. Maybe only elves know where to search", Amalric droned. "This Solas of yours knew as well."

"So he seemed, but I'd rather _not_ depend on him in every tiny detail of our research."

"Why is that so?"

"He might know much, but... with someone like him, it isn't hard to suspect that he isn't telling us everything. Or that he's helping only when he sees fit."

"You say it like he has some special advantage over everyone else", Trevelyan tried to fake interest, but his voice stretched like a chewy fudge sweet, the more numb and drowsy the longer he was looking for something outside.

"He's a  _somniar_ . Rather good at spellcasting, considering that no-one has ever  _taught_ him magic."

Trevelyan left his stained glass temple of deliberation to join Dorian by the table. The praying choir boy turned into a skeptic with an eyebrow crossed by a scar from the past hazards undertaken to explore the limits of knowledge.

"A _somniar_? There hasn't been a documented dreamer since... the Glory Age? Has anyone after Adralla ever written on dream walkers?"

"I also thought that dreamers were a relic of old. Some hard-headed aristocrats back home even tried to breed to restore the gift in our blood. Can you believe it? It made a few remarkably unstable souls", Dorian took a few steps around the table. "Solas surely knows how to control his visits in the Fade. Right after the Inquisitor hopped out of the Breach, he stabilised the Mark, which most likely allowed her to live. After we'd lost Haven, he went to sleep in the middle of nowhere, and the next morning he could draw a map that led us  _here_ . We were wondering how the Veil has been doing, and he revealed the existence of these antics", Dorian pointed at the artifact. "There is no doubt that he can find the exact solutions we need without access to the Imperial Archives."

Or, Corypheus had his agents closer than the Inquisition thought. But that option was much less likely. No ancient Tevinter like the Elder One would have given any elf a right to such knowledge and awareness. In the world that had lied at Corypheus's feet, Solas would have been turned into a Tranquil floor cleaner after all his wisdom had been torn away through mind control. At least that's how Tevinter history pictured the demise of the elven elite in captivity.

"Having a dreamer in our ranks", Amalric shook his head. "He could be our greatest ally or our greatest enemy. Do you think he's... approachable?", the man's eyes dilated and the voice filled with youthful vigor again. All the time Dorian and he had already spent together, and it was  _Solas_ whom Amalric wanted to know better? All they needed was the Ostwickan becoming the elf's faithful admirer. 

"I can see you aim to make interesting friends", Dorian simpered. "Solas though... I don't suppose it's will be easy to earn his attention. Especially when you're human."

"What's this about? Do you worry that the elves will conspire using their elven wonders?"

"That's not what I – I know how it must look like, but it's _not_ about them being elves", Dorian snorted back. Amalric chuckled, keeping something obviously so very insightful to himself. But of course, since Dorian belonged on the top of Tevinter chain of tribulation, it couldn't be about anything else than their being elves. That and the bloody weight of history. People back home rubbed themselves with memories of Imperium's grandest act of domination. These tales filled his history lessons, and the lessons of generations before. Dragon armies shrouding the befuddled city of Arlathan. Magisters merging crystal palaces with the profane soil and forest litter. Elven mages enslaved by the strange power of blood that allegedly made all the other kinds of magic pale. The Imperial conscience never allowed a trace of doubt in their devastating lust. The enemy deserved their lot, whatever insult the magisters had taken to besmirch them as cowardly and resentful.

Tevinter triumphed as long as the elves didn't know themselves, as long as their spirit remained dissipated. Yet, something started changing. The artifacts that could strengthen the Veil were recognised as elven. Corypheus's orb – probably elven. All the more could Inquisitor's Mark be – the Anchor, as the ancient one called it. People back home wouldn't be able to explain how anything taken from the humiliated heretic civilisation would become an essential tool for a champion of the Old Gods, no-one less. Would they have allowed anything that returned their own mockery at them? Had they become willfully blinded as soon as it backfired, taking their twisted pride in the pillaging and theft nonetheless?

But then, there was this one elf who seemed to know so clearly who he was and what he had lost – not from the lore passed on and on but from the Fade records themselves, from his own experience as it were. One apostate able to strip the empire off its vermillion cloak, if only he got close enough to a skilled chronicler. Had he joined his forces with the Inquisitor, they would have changed the whole world. Something was stirring up, something far beyond the Venatori and Breach affair, but it was impossible to tell what it was.

Amalric scratched his neck, walking in circles around the room. "Forget it. There's too much talking that leads us nowhere. We should focus on our work." He moved his hand around the artifact, tender and caring as if he was petting a living thing. "What if the orb isn't material only?", the mage asked. "What if the part we need to make one run is... in the Fade?"

"Is that even possible?", Dorian mussed his hair up, as if that could spark a useful thought somewhere inside. "Based on the accepted physical laws, the Veil doesn't allow two planes of existence to interact in a stabile manner."

"The Inquisitor has walked the Fade in the flesh. Someone before her had walked in the Fade in the flesh."

"These events were anomalous", Dorian whisked his arm in dissaproval. "Normally, only death allows entities from our waking world to traverse the Veil."

"Fine, let's leave that for now. How can _any_ artifact measure the Veil or change its state?", Amalric crossed his arms and took a step behind. "By registering the pressure put on the control point by the Fade? By the potential difference between the said point in the world _and_ in the Fade? Then, the mage could adjust the parameters as they see fit? A network of such artifacts tuned in with each other would create a consistent alteration...", the mage kept on circling the table while thinking out loud.

"You make it sound almost credible", Dorian's brow and a corner of his mouth twitched alike. The exciting temptation of making bold assumptions had been his and Alexius's domain.

"Usually it's a bit safer to try if things work in theory before taking the plunge...", Trevelyan squinted at artifact's step-like projections.

"But this one time you are tempted to leap? There's no need to play hare and hounds. I can see your fingers shake and fidget", Dorian wriggled his fingers to demonstrate.

"Tsk. Presumptions."

"So, you conceive of something like regulated power transformers?"

"If that's the case, the devices need to be made of proper material to conduct magical power. Like the alloys used for staff cores."

"Any semi-precious metal molten with a bit of lyrium can conduct magical power stored in an augmentation crystal. The question is what can conduct power to the Veil and through without disrupting it."

Amalric turned at Dorian with a grimace, a cunning one at that. "Should we ask Dagna to smelt it and separate the ingredients?"

"Not until we find out what _prevents_ this one from working."

"Have you seen this Solas activate one?"

"Yes. He seemed to apply a small energy charge through both the protrusions... like this", Dorian applied his hand to each side of the orb and sent two gentle streams of power. They gathered on the edges of artifact's appendages and wandered on as gleaming jolts. They crawled through the orb's surface to meet in the middle, prancing and leaving tiny green embers. For a little while, the artifact trembled and hummed in search of the right melody... for nothing. Where the energies should have begun whirling and forming a bright halo around the artifact, the air swallowed all the force with a dull flapping echo, as if someone had doused a candle with a quick breath.

"Chances are that I'm doing something wrong", Dorian rubbed his wrists. The way energies milled around him every time he cast a storm spell always gave him chills, sometimes also ruined his hair.

"Maybe there's a way to see inside? Do you think we could unscrew the pedestal?", Trevelyan insisted on groping the cold and porous sphere, corroded by natural forces throughout its unending presence in the world of reckless quicklings. "Could you please help me and hold this?", the mage's hands were already wandering towards the pedestal.

"Aren't we supposed to show it to everyone else first?", Dorian barred the orb with his arm stretched to hold Trevelyan back, almost smacking the other man's hand like an aunt guarding the dessert.

"What better solution will the others find? We will have to dismantle it anyway", the lad shrugged.

"Hate to dampen your curiosity, but let's leave the pleasure of ruining priceless ancient magic for tomorrow."

"Whatever you say, _professor_ ", Trevelyan snarled back. He sized Dorian up with a look saying "I will be correct tomorrow just as I am correct right  _now_ ", surprising for someone otherwise timid like an inferior Chantry brother. Touchy about knowing things, weren't we? In that endearing glimpse of temperament, Trevelyan's eyes sparked with something Dorian very much enjoyed about other men. Something he could go out of his way to watch. The future promised new exchanges and new glimpses, provided that the artifact survived the night. Just to make sure, Dorian secured it with a ward only _he_ could open.

He felt sort of bad for Varric getting beaten shitless, even though the dwarf apparently had it coming. Interrogated multiple times before Cassandra Pentaghast gave up on Hawke's trace and left Kirkwall, effectively becoming her hostage, Tethras could have known better than dissembling the whereabouts of people who instigated the great Mage-Templar war. Besides, unnecessary violence was hardly entertaining.

Dorian loitered around the tavern hoping to see Varric in one piece, perhaps buy him a few. Skyhold foremen, cleaners, launderers, stable workers, blacksmith's apprentices and other people who remained invisible in their working morning hours slowly gathered together for their leisure time. The usual bustle in Herald's Rest didn't apply to a single table on the first floor that repelled the passersby as if surrounded with a magical ward. As expected, it was occupied by the dwarf and his hero friend. Despite a bottle of wine standing right in front of him, Varric let his arms down in a mopish gesture and stared into a knarl somewhere on the table. Now that the Champion of Kirkwall guarded his side, leering at everyone ready to approach, it got across to Dorian that the dwarf had always relaxed alone. Writing, playing solitary or polishing his crossbow, he never let anyone linger for too long, pretending that he had some important business to attend to afterwards. But now, at last, he was there with a friend.

Hawke knew that many eyes were set on him after the whole display, but his menacing glare effectively drove everybody away. Solving the city's problems for so many years, it must have been convenient to develop a "none of your business" expression to use whenever he got tired of being the savior of the day. It clearly worked, as even the barkeepers passed them their steaming nug roasts and drink without looking in Hawke's eye. Skyhold quivered at the very presence of his legend, now also at the man's threatening demeanor provoked by Seeker's attack on Varric. Seeing that the dwarf didn't feel like drinking, Hawke hoovered the wine up on his side of the table and gradually overthrew the whole bottle with oddly familiar nonchalance.

It turned out that the whole castle changed due to Hawke's arrival, as if the Inquisition had held its breath. Questions arose in hushed voices: what was the Champion looking for? What would the Inquisitor do next? The gossip sprawled. Within a day, Hawke's life was laid out on a plate in dozens of versions, at least one of them likely being a drape of half-truths produced by Varric himself. What couldn't Dorian learn! That Hawke was a mage in disguise, a vile blood mage at that. That he murdered local magistrate's son in beast-like zeal, mistaking the lad for an abomination. That he repeatedly assaulted a Chantry mother who warned against the treacherous nature the Arishok and his castaway soldiers. That Hawke was the one who proactively stoked up Kirkwall's First Enchanter against their templars and encouraged the infamous mage radical to perform his attack on the Chantry. That he Made a pact with another blood mage to slaughter a Dalish clan that was in possession of a rare piece of ancient knowledge. Lady Josephine had to post official disclaimers.

The name was thrown about in the baths, the dining hall, among launderers concealing their faces in sheets and piles of clothing, causing the guards and scouts to cough in discontent and Leliana's agents – to tear their hair out as they couldn't mitigate or steer the ourburst of rumours. All the same, one couldn't deny these questionable news some consistency attempting to portray the Champion of Kirkwall as the _last_ person in Thedas who could help solve any conflict with the slimmest chance of progress. And his alpha quillback stance certainly didn't help. Which only convinced Dorian that the man expected to be followed by a humongous tail of overblown stories.

On that account, Dorian found himself in a bind. Talking to the Champion directly was out of question while he made that face of his, promising to punch everyone impertinent enough to ask another stupid question. The chances of Varric not folding like hot laundry lest he underwent another line of interrogation – nonexistent. Commander Cullen, another witness of the events, had been ruffling the mane of his cape since Hawke's arrival as a univocal sign of warning that he _didn't_ talk about Kirkwall.

The Tevinter stopped laughing at the absurdity as soon as he realised that _he_ could as well be subjected to similar unjustified fulmination. Not to mention the Inquisitor. At any rate, these few days until people got used to Hawke's presence and toned the gossip down persuaded Dorian to curl up with a good book, or with a group of people deeply preoccupied with different topics.

The rest of enchanters examined the elven artifact and tapped on its every side, and repeated the standard tests with controlled loads of energy, only to reach the conclusion that they wouldn't go further without disassembling the artifact. Hiding his face in a tall collar, that only occasionally revealed a smirk of satisfaction, Amalric requested to proceed with his plan. Dorian and he laid the artifact on the table and scrunched up around it, their arms reeled in a clumsy operation. The Ostwickan grumbled each time the sphere resisted to turn, foiling the strain of his reddened hands. Each time, Dorian silently hoped that the mage's haste would be humbled, even a tiny bit. But it wasn't. Eventually, the pedestal resigned, revealing a well-polished mineral spike attached to its inner side. The crystal scincillated like disturbed waves on a pond of light green and coral pink. The spike appeared fractured halfway through, and the remains of the other half fell out onto the table in short splinters as soon as Dorian rolled and turned the orb about.

"An interesting finding. Although I fear _we_ might have harmed the core", Dorian said.

"Or maybe it had been broken before", Amalric conveyed a gentle hiss in his response. So naughty for a Circle enchanter.

"At least we have something new", Gwenaelle picked up a piece of the broken rod and examined it through a large emerald lens. Dorian waggled the dysfunctional crystal against a stroke of sunlight to bring out its abundance of soft, pearly glares. "If we make this work, we will get closer to understanding the artifacts. Now might be the time to consult our dear arcanist", Dorian looked at Trevelyan from the corner of his eye. 

When he returned to his quarter in the series of chambers, attached to the mage tower on one side and cloistered above the garden on the other, he found a tiny bundle wrapped in red fabric lying on his night table – new correspondence. He shuffled the envelopes out of habit rather than true excitement, half-hoping for anything from Tevinter. His latest letter to Maevaris could have reached Val Royeaux at best.

First, Dorian ran through the inside reports. His request for several Tevinter dissertations in thaumaturgy had been given over to the Royal Collection in Denerim, currently focused on salvaging all the books from the forsaken Circles. "I might need you in Crestwood, in person. Please check in", the Inquisitor requested. At least no-one would say that he pushed in uninvited to keep after her. Next, a short note in Ranalle's angular writing: "I don't mean to pry, but the Revered Mother from Jader asked an awful lot of questions about you when she reclaimed the next shipment of healing potions. Do you know each other? Let's meet in the free time if you want." Dorian wasn't sure what was more novel: Ranalle trying to belie her interest in the dashing foreigner from Tevinter, or the golden-tongued Revered Mother opening up about it.

Another parchment was filled with slanted letters by Ambassador Josephine: "We proudly report our progress with Orlesian diplomats. Thanks to priceless words of support from the Imperial Court Enchanter and our connections within the Council of Heralds, we have earned ourselves hearing from the Empress Celene. Her Imperial Majesty is most intrigued with Inquisitor's endeavours, and has given us an invitation to the great Summersday Ball. I recommend to economize our operations from now on so we can make our presence not only _felt_ , but clearly _unforgettable_. All the Inquisition associates well-versed in court etiquette are welcome to claim their place as the Inquisitor's main attendants. Due to the event's solemnity, the Inquisition will secure limited assets for attire, dancing tutorials, and a training in diplomatic contrivance."

Goodness, when was the last time Dorian attended a good party? When was the last time he was invited in the first place, instead of being _that_ moocher nobody wanted to talk about? And to visit the Winter Palace itself, with those gold-incrusted ornamental flourishes, wall panels from finest velvet, drinking glasses lavishly dyed with rare ores, each food plate carved like a work of art, carpets like goose down... Everything Dorian missed from home, doubled by Orlesian expenditure. What would the ball mean without him? But right after the bright vision of Inquisition's opulent entertainment among hidden daggers and deadly whispers, he remembered why all of it had been slipping past him: to live in the lap of such luxury, one needed a birthright pass.

As a matter of fact, Dorian's birthright had most questionable legitimacy. Not that he was a bastard or something. Being a bastard would have been quite digestible an explanation why Dorian never suited his family's solemn plans. But judging how everyone fussed over him when he was a child instead of reducing him to a slave, he could be quite sure he wasn't a _lightsome_ mistake, on the contrary: a completely deliberate one.

The truth about his birthright was more profane: he wasn't his father's son anymore for a while. Not since they had the... disagreement about Dorian's marital status. That was, he wasn't his father's son anymore _if_ magister Halward assessed the potency of his mere word right. Within the circle of his clients and boot-lickers, the word must have been enough. Which somehow made the Imperium too cramped for Dorian's presence. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Dorian had never been officially disowned, so he left home with a material proof of his birthright. At least, he _had_ had the proof until one day he went flat broke and so resentful that monetising the trinket appeared a good idea.

Going to Halamshiral without affronting the Inquisition required him to retrieve _it_ – the wretched token that qualified him to wear his name in front of stuck-up nobles. And Maker knew the Inquisition needed him there. That meant a humbling pursuit after a certain upstart merchant. But where was Dorian supposed to start?

 


	19. Heinous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council before the Crestwood expedition feels tense. Dorian reveals his interest in necromancy, and starts reaping the consequences. Amalric gets clingy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter contains **DA II spoilers** , including mentions of body horror.

Had the Inquisitor's advisers listened to everyone equally, the Council's authority would have diluted into indigestible swill. Now, they had to deal with Hawke on the scene and another greater operation impending. The Champion of Kirkwall glared at Cullen, Cassandra interchangeably glowered at the Champion _and_ Varric, Leliana stalked each one of them with her keen eye. All of this combined with odd silence of Warden Blackwall and play-safe vigilance of Scout Harding. Why could these councils never be _just_ what they were supposed to be?

"Our negotiations with the Palace in Denerim are successful", Josephine began. "The King prefers his forces to remain focused on consolidating their own structures, as he views the crisis of power in Orlais threatening. Our scope of committments includes fighting the Venatori and rogue templars, securing the Fade rifts, and aiding refugees harmed by the explosion. We are not permitted to seize land or intervene in any conflicts between bannorns and arlings. In exchange, Fereldan troops are free to use the mountain passage en route to Skyhold, and use our castle as a layover station."

"Also, the Crown has requested our presence in the Palace. The details are... delicate", Leliana added.

"For now, we focus on Crestwood. Our operation has three aims: to locate the Champion's contact, who's been on Corypheus's trail, to close the lake rift, to end the threat from the undead", Cullen said. "Caer Bronach must wait for reinforcements from the Southern Bannorn or Highever. We'll send more archers to ward the bandits off from our forces, but there won't be an open assault on the castle."

Not the best plan perhaps, but stepping on a theyrn's foot would have been much more devastating.

"The undead threat won't disappear on its own as soon as we've closed the rift. We must try to rejuvenate the Veil in Crestwood. Or at least calm the spirits down and burn all the bodies to let them rest in peace", the Inquisitor spoke. "I'll ask Solas to look out for more elven artifacts, but Dorian's assistance is also welcome. I hope that you see some progress in your research?", she nodded.

"There's still a long way ahead of us. Without knowledge about the materials from which the artifacts are made, we can only imagine _how_ they served their purpose."

"Any suggestions as to the situation?", Lavellan inquired.

"There is something I could suggest, albeit it requires a use of subtle and rare arts", Dorian swept his eyes over the attendees. "By this, I mean repelling the spirits that linger in the corpses, if only that helps the situation."

From Cassandra's multi-purpose grunt, through Leliana's nostrils flaring, Cullen turning his face away, to Hawke's silent cursing and Varric's rigid glares spelling trouble, their reaction did _not_ disappoint. After a longer pause, the Champion of Kirkwall spoke his mind:

"A _necromancer_. Great. Bring in more creepy puppeteers to disturb the dead." Varric squeezed the man's shoulder and shook head.

"We break the deepest natural boundaries. Yes, I've heard the complaint", Dorian gave a snort. "But bear in mind that the simplest spirits can be sent away just as easily as they can be conjured, if only they're left without a host. That's what I was going to propose. Killing the undead and making sure the spirits don't just zap from corpse to corpse."

" _No_ ", Cullen snapped back. "Crestwood isn't our sandbox. What if it gets us even _more_ walking corpses?"

"That _won't_ happen. I know my craft. And if you found yourself overwhelmed, would you reject help from someone who can make these undead your _allies_?", Dorian asked.

"I don't know about that", the Inquisitor replied. "Won't that make spirits more angry?"

"We're speaking about wisps, too dissipated to reflect feelings. What I deal with are drifting energies, blindly drawn to the closest tears in the Veil. No harm can be done here."

"Regardless, we're not taking the risk", Cullen proclaimed. Supposedly, there was no arguing with that. "We'll close the rift, and clear the undead out using traditional methods: sword and ember. Then we can think what to do with the Veil."

"Oh. So that's how I'm being heard out", Dorian pouted.

"Keep calm, both of you", Cassandra intervened. "We must think soberly. The denizens of Crestwood are frightened enough as they are. Dorian might provide us with a backup plan _only_ if all else fails." The Nevarran peered at him for a while, her forehead blooming with little furrows as Leliana whispered something in her ear.

"That's enough about corpses. Another point of agenda. The Warden contact. Where should we expect them?", Commander pressed on, more twitchy than before.

"He promised to follow smuggler routes from the North", Hawke answered.

"Can you give us anything more about his potential whereabouts? About those smugglers? Can the contact be in danger from them?", Cullen showered Hawke with questions.

"We're looking for a specific group. Varric and I know them from across the sea. They leave signs. And the Warden isn't a child, he can take care of a few thugs."

"Crestwood is rich in caverns. If he's hiding, it will be more difficult to track him down without making contact", Scout Harding spoke up.

"That's why I'd like to go with Varric", Hawke said. "The Warden is our common acquaintance. He should be less reluctant to meet with a small team."

"Good. Then, we're sending the Inquisitor with a small party to meet the Warden. Hawke and Varric, Blackwall, Cassandra?" Each of them gave a nod to the Commander. "In the meantime, our forces will find and secure access to the lake rift", Cullen moved his cast figurines around the map. "We expect waves of the undead from the lake. Dorian and Solas will go with the rearguard and control the battlefield from the distance. I expect Solas is coming as well?"

Was he? How cooperative.

Soon, the atmosphere declined and the meeting came to an end. Hawke turned on his heel and stormed out of the war room. Varric sighed heavily and murmured something under his breath.

"Is something wrong with the Champion?", Dorian asked the dwarf when it all ended.

"Well...", the dwarf tried to duck out of answering, but he lacked the persistence. As soon as the advisers went out of eyeshot, his reluctance to speak vanished. "You couldn't have known that bit. Once upon a time in Kirkwall there was a funny guy who kept kidnapping women. For body parts. He liked certain body parts better than others. They suspected an apostate who was hiding with his research in necromancy. But before they caught him, it fell on someone _really_ close to Hawke. Luckily, the necromancer guy didn't get around much anymore once he got a bolt in his forehead. The end", Varric's voice abstained from spewing poison with perfect self-possession.

" _Vishante kaffas._  I couldn't have known", Dorian drawled.

"Yeah", the dwarf sighed.

Outside the Imperium and Nevarra necromancy was regarded exactly as high as blood magic. The fact that many necromancers couldn't accomplish satisfying results without fuelling their magic with blood remaining in dead bodies didn't help their reputation.

Necromancy in itself, at least the way Dorian learned it, was a subsection of spirit magic that used the Veil passages created through death. It could only allow the mage to gain control over the simplest spirits. There were the Mortalitasi, the renowned keepers of Nevarran sepulchral rites whose craft relied on inviting lost spirits into enbalmed bodies. There were necromancers of the Imperial Legion, trained to frighten the enemy and raise corpses to keep fighting on their side. Needless to say, the magisters needed to take this craft further. Controlling spirits became something of a favourite sport. Spirits were luxurious servants, evidence of their master's charisma. That's where blood magic became convenient as an aid.

But there were things even more radical than magisters' addiction to haggling over prestige. What bargain seemed better than sustaining lifelike mobility in that which had already died? Keeping the soul connected with a vessel that did not need to fear death anymore? Stories traveled of animated loose limbs, corpse thralls put together from separate pieces, life force squeezed back into the withered matter. Dorian heard a horrifying legend of ravenous flesh creatures crawling in the Deep Roads, whose first victims were their reckless creators.

They could have done decent work directing lost spirits into safe vessels. They could have guarded the secret of the greatest passage with humility and solemnity. They could have been revered like the Mortalitasi in Nevarra. But no, there _had_ to be those overachieving fuckwits who had silenced all their feelings of shame and disgust to show something original and _thrilling_. They gave necromancy its reputation of the weaker sister of blood magic.

Restoration of life once lost was a dream of men beyond hope. Dorian knew it well because he also had to investigate _this_ possibility in theory, even if it was only to get Alexius off his back. The results were obvious even without the use of blood magic. Something about decaying matter turned spirits more feral than they would appear in their natural form. Perhaps, since the Fade didn't suffer from decomposition, this was something furthest from the nature of _all_ spirits. Thus, binding a spirit complex enough to reflect any coherent idea had always seemed extremely hazardous.

Dorian found Varric later in the library and made an attempt to... whatever. Conflict wouldn't have helped him, especially with the Champion of Kirkwall. He sat in next to the dwarf by one of the long research tables, pretending deep interest in a historical analysis of the Chantry schism – probably another piece of rubbish by some Orlesian zealot.

"So, the Champion had rather devastating experiences with necromancers."

"And you're going to do something about it?", the dwarf mumbled from above his reading with a tint of discouragement, refusing even to turn his head at Dorian.

"Does it make any sense to try to... make peace?"

Varric squinted his eyes for a moment. "Nah."

"No?"

The dwarf slammed his book shut, scuffing up a dusty cloud that smelled of old, stale parchment. "Maker's kickin' ass, Sparkles. You admit to necromancy in front of all the important people, ruffling your tail like a pheasant in the mating season. You should be lucky Leliana didn't sign you up for deep backbone realignment", the dwarf barked back in a hushed voice.

"Not that you Southerners get the proper idea. The sort of necromancy _I_ practice only deals with the simplest figments of spiritual form that blindly press against the Veil. They are barely spirits at all. I was hoping that the Champion would listen to an explanation when he's cooled off a bit."

"People don't look at the _idea_ you followed to make yourself feel better, Sparkles. People see something that keeps walking even though it was _killed_. What can they trust if even death isn't a certainty? How exhilarating is that?"

"Most people would be short of one major concern in their lives if they learned to perceive death for what it is. Annihilation for the involved. Some revoked attachment and unpleasant chemistry for the observers."

"And you're surprised most people think you folk are creepy", the dwarf taunted.

"Forget I brought it up", Dorian waved the dwarf off. What people described as the journey through the Fade was most likely the memory of the dead person slowly disintegrating. A weak spirit, called to life by grief and slowly losing its nourishment. A body devoid of its proper soul couldn't become anything more than a rotting vessel, a vessel that could still serve a skilled mage. But most andrastians in the South surrounded dead bodies with some unspeakable sanctity.

He needed to inform his team that the expedition was too specific and too risky to bring a bunch of lollygagging researchers alongs. Trevelyan was loitering around the other part of the library, nearly blinded by the stack of books he was carrying – one had to admit, the man needed strong arms to hold it all in check. Seeing Dorian from the corner of his eye, the Ostwickan stuck his nose out of the pile of scholarly spoils and dropped it onto the nearest research table, breathing out with relief.

"Magical properties of known metals and stones", Amalric demonstrated, smiling. "Theories of ether and such. This should keep me busy for a week."

"Great. You can hand me your report when I'm back from Crestwood."

" _You're_ going to Crestwood? What about the rest of us?", Trevelyan crossed his arms, and Dorian could sense some reproach in his voice.

"The situation is more complex than we expected. You can all join in once the immediate threat has been solved."

"If it's about fighting, then I can take care of myself. I _must_ see the Inquisitor closing that rift", Amalric pleaded with his eyes growing and glimmering. These ridiculous eyes would be Dorian's undoing one day. For now, they did enough to make him feel guilty for not giving the poor bastard what he wanted.

"And if you get harmed, I'll be held accountable for bringing you unprepared."

"I _won't_ be treated like a nuisance", Trevelyan insisted. After a while of measuring Dorian with a cocky glare, to which the mage from Tevinter was _utterly indifferent_ , Amalric softened up again. "Let me prove myself. Please."

Dorian threw a reluctant face, even though he was curious what Trevelyan could do in battle. He leant towards the other mage and told him in a hushed voice:

"If the situation goes dire, I might have to resort to necromancy. This probably isn't a picture you want to -"

Someone gave a loud gasp behind the corner of the alcove where they were talking. Just as Dorian turned around, a figure in a tall red coif of the Chantry mothers glided away downstairs as if there were a fire. He only caught a glimpse of russet brown skin on the back of woman's hands. "Mother Giselle of Jader", he muttered under his breath. Something told him that she had acquired _exactly_ what she wanted to hear.

"Who? The gossip mother? Ah, shoot. I shouldn't say such things", Amalric covered his mouth, bemused. "Did you... did you say necromancy? That's how you're trying to discourage me?"

They leapt out to the gardens behind Mother Giselle to confirm Dorian's suspicions and see how quick the shocking revelation would have spread among the Inquisition's clergy. On their way, Dorian learned that Amalric treated the necromancy part as an actual _incentive_. Something about a unique way the Mortalitasi manipulated the Veil, and a chance to see many spectres lingering in one location. It appeared that Trevelyan wouldn't have left Dorian's side on that trip for anything.

"If you don't take me with you, my report will be terribly long. And boring", Amalric kept on pestering. Dorian didn't see any way to argue with that, knowing the other mage's ability to ramble about physics.

When they arrived in the gardens, Giselle was already prattling with a circle of agitated sisters. Their giggling allowed Dorian to approach stealthily. He cleared his throat and greeted the mother with faked kindness:

"Good day to you, Mother. No problem with zealots? Heretics? Mischievous death mages?"

"O-oh, messere Pavues!", she pretended surprise, ending up just as pretentious as Dorian _intended_. "Where does your sudden concern come from? Do you suspect any zealots lingering in Skyhold?", she asked in her broken Common accent, with excessive obliviousness permeating the tone of her voice. "I hope the Inquisitor has heard about this _sooner_ than I."

"It came to my notice that the library walls have grown ears lately. Bizzare, isn't it?", Dorian pierced Giselle with the most innocent smile. "Almost as if private conversations could be used for undue ends by... ghosts. Or zealots. Take your pick."

"I... don't quite understand, messere, but I promise to be wary", the mother wrinkled her nostrils and turned away with the typical Orlesian hiss sneaking away loud enough for Dorian to hear.

She knew that he knew. The war had begun. A few weeks without a prospect of seeing the woman's face would have done Dorian good.

 


	20. The mud that stuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the operation in Crestwood begins, Dorian finds himself with the auxiliary forces that aim to distract the Inquisitor's search for the Warden contact. The greatest surprise is the weather. The second thereafter...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning - horror content** (undead, red lyrium terror)

The forward camp near Crestwood coiled in a gale of freezing rain striking like swarms of angry wasps. Above the rift, a slim waterspout arose from the complex of underwater caves like a column, exposing the naked eye of the rift's vortex. There was a similar lake back home near Asariel, where the undead pestilence was commonplace, only with fewer rifts and demons.

"That rift is... majestic. It's like a lesser Breach", Trevelyan enthused, standing up on the wobbling carriage. Dorian pouted, hugging his bent knees tight to keep all the fur layers close to his body. Admittedly, the rift and its aftermath was distracting enough to dissimulate the King's procession in itself. All they needed to do was tend to the whole rift and undead business, while the Inquisitor would dig through the caves looking for a Grey Warden. Piece of cake.

The gaping whirlpool would have seemed majestic in its own way, had Dorian been able to care about things more sophisticated than the frost grovelling about every inch of his body. The truth that he had never had enough warmth had many applications, from grousing about Southern weather to nights spent wallowing in self-pity.

The carriages pulled in by a uniform blotch of mud faintly outlined with mossy curbs. Cornerstones standing out here and there reminded that the puddle chosen for their forward camp had probably been a part of the old settlement. Dorian hesitated, grunting at the prospect of simply jumping off the carriage, straight into the fuscuous muck that was ready to swallow his boots with a malignant slurping sound. Amalric cackled and jumped, making the mud gush forth right onto Dorian's best leather trousers.

What added insult to injury, the Inquisition couldn't afford to send a mage healer forward, which left them with _just_ a surgeon. That meant they'd stitch and cut Dorian like a ragdoll in a poor makeshift clinic. Not in the educated Nevarran fashion, but in a way that was aesthetically barbaric. Being too beautiful to get mutilated this way (and shame himself in front of... never mind in front of whom), he made a decision to survive without a single cut. Unless it looked  _really_ heroic and sexy.

"So much for my personal challenge to keep the coat clean", Dorian gritted his teeth, carefully lowering himself until the muck splashed under his feet. Personal objective number two – failed. Soon, he was put to a new trial: it was slippery. So slippery that one false step could have gotten him an unsuspected facial treatment _au Val Royeaux_. Personal objective number three: save the face.

Solas hobbled and muttered something ancient under his breath (it had to be curses, if Dorian had heard any). The poor soul needed to wear boots, and they chafed his feet.

"Tread carefully. You don't want to end up doing the splits amongst devouring corpses", Dorian patted Trevelyan on the shoulder.

"Depends who'd watch my back", the mage looked back with a cheeky simper. Admittedly, he had a back more watchable than the average, even without intentional contortions.

"Tsssk. Where's your nobility, serah Trevelyan?", Dorian teased. The answer was a silent _Hmph_. Seemingly, the nobility could be suspended for a pair of crystal-clear Northern eyes. 

As soon as they settled in, the Inquisitor's wading shape moved out along the road with the Seeker, the Champion, the Warden, and the dwarf. Scout Harding, hiding her face deep inside a snagged hood, beckoned at the reinforcements.

"Blood and curses", she wrinkled her nose at the slanting rain. "Pardon my Orlesian, but I'm afraid that the weather is staying with us. It's been like this since the rift opened. It seems to sustain these thick clouds that bring the heavy rain."

"Not unlikely", Gwenaelle contemplated the uniform gray quilt in the sky, measuring it with frames and angles she made with her fingers.

"You're telling me there's hope for improvement, provided we've sealed the rift? That is the best news I've heard today", Dorian rubbed his hands.

" _If_ some of us stop whimpering about the cold and start thinking about solutions", Gwenaelle smirked. Tiny strands of her hair sticking out of her hood solidified with the hoarfrost. Now Dorian understood why the Fereldans wore so many, many furs.

"We could row, then let the currents take us to the rift. Or wear all our armour and just wade in", Dorian let his hand glide in the air to demonstrate, making Amalric release a tiny snort. Harding's timid coughing brought them back to reality.

"I would ask you mages to assist by the old settlement. Finding a safe approach to the rift is our priority. But there's one major setback: when the the village was stricken by the Blight, it got flooded."

"The village got flooded with blighted bodies still inside. Doesn't that make the whole lake contaminated? Threatening to poison the potable water, the soil...", Dorian grimaced. "That would be very _clever_ for the darkspawn."

"For all we know, the bodies are coming back", Harding nodded at the jagged fringes of seaweed that marked the shoreline. The water bubbled and stirred, delivering another couple of corpses onto the dark, pebbly shore.

"We thought this would end overnight. It hasn't", Harding faltered.

"If we drained this part of the lake, perhaps we could walk through", Gweanelle tugged her collar close to her mouth and nose. "Who's in charge of this place?"

"Maybe the mayor can tell you how to get there. Beware of the shambles below, by the village. I can give you two skilled archers. Some of you already know Charter, one of my best agents. She'll guide you along the path", Harding waved at a red-blonde, freckled elf, who invited everyone with an incisive glare. "And this is miss Sera, one of Inquisition's companions", she pointed the fair elven girl who had made herself at home in the Skyhold tavern's corner alcove, especially on Fridays, when they served Orlesian brandy.

"Please avoid fighting in close quarters. Pay attention to the wild druffalos, they've become irritable with all the corpses around. And... good luck", Harding gave a short, shrewd salutation.

Gleep-glop, they marched on carefully, adjusting their pace and confidence to the unmaintained road covered in half-frozen muddy danger. The grass on the hills was a trap, an ankle-deep marsh waiting for someone to recklessly pop in.

"So, we're fighting dead guys. How deep in shit is that?", the rogue girl asked.

"That depends on your average in-shit depth. Have you fought undead before?", Dorian replied.

"I've seen dead-dead, but not like that. But when a guy's dead once, then what? Knock the head down like a rotten pumpkin?", the girl chattered. "Bam! - Splash! - Like chickens. In pieces, so a bit more dead, ain't they?"

"That's... sensible", Dorian half-smiled. "They'd surely have a hard time attacking while trying to pick themselves up."

"Have some modesty, please. It's still dead _people_ we're speaking about", Gwenaelle winced.

"Fighting corpses does require permanent dismemberment. Practically speaking, decapitation isn't our worst option. Unless someone handles the spirit inside the corpse", Dorian replied.

"Is that how you intend to play?", Solas asked with a tiny hint of poison in his voice. "Handling spirits?"

"If that's a way to tip the scales to our advantage, then why not use it? Battlefield is hardly a place for sentimentalities", Dorian looked at the elf from the corner of his eye.

"Ah, yes. The old Imperial school of strategic prudence", Solas replied with a sarcastic, scoffing twist. A brickbat cast to break Dorian's pearly teeth. The elf gave him a squint, perfectly tailored to the petrifying weather. One that said "Surely, you're in your element among all these corpses." Dorian had always had luck with attracting soreheads, but at least they had usually known the right timing to pick at any distinctness.

"Well dog's. You're the one from Tevinter, right? Not the usual magic but the special kind of magic. I stopped the Magister Spiky Grumpyface'n'all", the elven girl's voice turned sour. The word in Skyhold was that she hadn't been fond of mages altogether.

Dorian groaned quietly and speeded up. There was no need to turn the company into vinegar.

"Aaaaaand... a stuffy one", he heard a going-away remark. Clouds above and inside his head thickened.

Then, just as the whole trip to the Crestwood village started turning somewhat tedious and unrewarding, they encountered a couple corpses to be dissected. These were more resilient than the living, lacking weariness or the fear of injury. Also, contrary to a common belief, really agile. Once the spirits on the inside grasped the secret of willful motion, they quickly learned to use all the skills memorised by the limbs. Besides, the bodies' progressing decay repelled the living fighters.

The winter cold had one advantage: the process of decay slowed down, however subtly, so the smells didn't place the Inquisition at another vehement disadvantage. The darlings in Crestwood smelled of seaweed and clam. A bit like the air around memorial mausolea in Marnas Pell, the sort of mortar with seashells mixed in.

"Is it true that the Redcliffe rescue involved experiments with time magic?", Amalric turned up whispering in Dorian's ear. The road was slanting upwards, slowly turning into a tiny river that kept mustering up all the rubbish from the hills.

"You are treading on thin ice, serah", Dorian replied.

"Are you speaking figuratively, or is there really ice under– gahh!", Amalric swayed and dangled as his boots glided backwards into the pulp. Despite his wholehearted attempts to stay on his feet, the mage soon ended up grating his blushing buttcheeks against the road pebbles.

"Tread carefully. We should hurry", the freckled scout called.

"On the fences! The ground is shit!" Miss Sera eagerly jumped along the curbstones, proceeding with catlike grace.

After a few slippery miles upslope and five slashing road twists, they reached a line of scorched houses and the village stockade. The undead prowled at the gates. The watch was scarce in numbers, a few men facing the hills by the lakeside.

"See? They come from where Old Crestwood used to be", one of the guards called.

"Amount of people we lost back during the Blight, I'm not surprised."

"Not surprised? We've been trapped for bloody weeks!", the other guard spat on the ground and reluctantly saluted at the Inquisition signs on their armour. The organisation was gaining _some_ respect in the community. "Your worships. The mayor could use your assistance."

Mayor's house stood in the highest part of the village, at the top of a stone staircase guarded by two morose dog statues. These, for a change, were howling, judging from their uplifted spear-like heads. The mayor gave them a rather cool welcome. He offered them help, yes, but wasn't very keen on letting them into the old settlement, or the stronghold. The darkspawn had flooded the village during the Blight, he said. The dam mechanism, accessible from the castle, was now probably broken. The dam itself might have been damaged. They would've had to evict the bandits from the stronghold. By and large, they shouldn't have bothered.

"Is there a way to the castle that would allow us to sneak in past the guards?", Charter asked.

"I think it had another gate by the docks. The merchants used to enter through a natural cave."

Bandits or the undead, they had to fight their way in. Charter made the mayor sign an official request on parchment. He walked them away with a glare that revealed a hidden insult.

Scraping the dry mud down from his trousers, Amalric read the village notice board and whistled under his breath. The bulk of the cracked, ashen pegboard held tons of fluttering name lists, skirmish summaries, and reports on theft and looting in the area. Might have been the saddest notice board Dorian had ever seen.

"This place is more interesting than expected. There's a dragon nesting somewhere in the fields southwards. Should we ask it to take the keep for us?"

Definitely the saddest notice board he'd ever seen.

"We should pop in for a tea party. Discuss dracology. Who knows, maybe the dragon is really cold-tempered and longs for understanding", Dorian replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"Let's run back to Harding and tell her that we have a pass. Then we might try to secure a safe entrance to the stronghold. And not to make things messy", Charter said.

The slanted wall falling from the sky seemed thicker than before. Or maybe it was just Dorian's impression. Rare whisks of trees bowed to the wind and let the rain lash the trunks. Mushy zigzags on the ground, greater and greater in numbers, infallibly crawled down the hills and stone chinks to replenish the lake.

"Any hearing from the Inquisitor?", the question fell as soon as they returned. Harding shook her head with a frown of concern.

"The mayor requested our assistance. We could set up another camp on the stretch between Hawke's designated meeting point and the stronghold approach", Charter reported. "There's a realistic chance to infiltrate the fort, too." For a while, they calculated, exchanging thoughtful glares. Harding huddled, wincing from the cold and rain, looking small even for a dwarf.

"The contact is our priority. When the Inquisitor brings them to safety, we can try with Caer Bronach."

On their way to the intended vantage point, defying the doom and gloom of Crestwood's crisis, a new omen appeared. Irregular, obtuse crystals of bright red pierced the ground from the hill's bowels. Viewed from a distance, through the lens of the pouring rain, it looked almost like they harboured some form of life. Faint gleams crawled underneath the hardened crust, up and outwards, always hungry for a greater vessel. For all Dorian knew, inside these crystals there was only death and madness.

"Damn. That's unexpected", Harding hissed. "That's the only way we can get there", she turned at the bunch of mages behind her back. Her long, green-hazel eyes apologized.

"It's like the Fade bleeding pure nightmares through, only... it comes from the stone", Gwenaelle covered her ears.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, stupid rock", Sera muttered under her breath. "You're bloody nothing. Can't hear _nothing_."

"I recommend that we pass these by as fast as we can. Of all things, don't listen if you realise that they  _speak_  to you", Dorian jittered.

"What are they?", Amalric asked, his gaze stilled on the new revelation. Was that how it began, viewed from the outside? Did people simply lose it to a lethal allure and start... doing things?

"Something only an incredibly power-hungry and reckless person could do with lyrium to turn it into a perfect device of terror. Let's go. No time for explanations here." Dorian felt urged to pull everyone else away from the nightmare, find a different landscape, only to run from the damn matter. He'd rather have seen the whole Crestwood _slaughtered and turned to ash_ than stay for another bloody minute.

He shook his head, mistrusting himself. That wasn't what _he'd_ want to see. The vile entity was subtle in its suggestions. And if Dorian Pavus couldn't trust himself, who else was there left to trust? Red lyrium spikes abounded and thickened, stealing space from a wide, paved road. Dorian's eyes were drawn to the wayshrine higher in the hills, overgrown threefold by red lyrium. For a blink of an eye, it seemed to hold a row of bodies impaled on its branches, like a desert shrike's prey. Dorian focused on his breath and movements. His muscles twitched, ready to defend themselves on the slightest sign. The heartbeat raced in vigilance that hadn't been called for.

"Such a regretful abomination created from magic's sentient essence", Solas's voice wavered between pain and purest contempt.

"Lyrium doesn't form _like that._ It's like veins. And it should be deep underground", Trevelyan snorted, jumping towards one of the crystal horrors.

"Don't-", Dorian followed, ready to take the man away from the danger. By force, if necessary. _Force was so sweet. It caused that tingling underneath, just like the sight of nude body_. The Ostwickan kept a few steps' distance and leant forward to watch the lyrium flare up and dim to its unique, deadly song. _Our kiss is sweeter than yours. Who will feast on him first?_

That sick, abusive monstrosity. Not a single way to stir doubt, fear, or hatred, none of it was beyond its limits. They'd take something only merely sprouting in the mind, and spoil it at the core. Dorian took a deep breath in. That wasn't any dismissible future. That was the tribunal of his present. Was there a word for nausea that started in one's _soul_?

Charter and Harding were busy directing the remaining scout troops to the meeting point. Gwenaelle was shopping around, somewhat helpless, but she pressed forward. The elven archer was trembling, stretching her bow at lyrium formations. It was all too strong. As if the stalagmites created a resonance in their scope, slowly displacing healthy thought. Which was absolutely fucked up from a perspective of fighting its expansion. Of course, natural sensitivity to lyrium must have made it a lot harder to resist for mages. At any rate, the Inquisition needed more countermeasures... if there were any. Dagna, Dagna. A point of unspoiled advancement lighted up in Dorian's head.

"It gives off warmth", Amalric said. For a while, his voice felt inappropriately calm and flat, like after strong lotus and rashvine tincture. "Raw lyrium is so funny up close. It's so sad we can't get even closer to it. Let its power spark in our aura. At the fingertips. If lyrium is magic, why can't we unite?"

 _Fasta vass_ , that was it. Dorian leapt to the other mage's side. "Sorry to spoil it, but having your brain evaporated by touching raw lyrium is where the fun needs to stop." He nearly disjointed the other mage's shoulder when he pulled him away from the red. He promptly turned his protective grasp into a friendly neck hug, hoping that Trevelyan wasn't harmed. "I dare say that could bereave the academic world."

Amalric grinned slowly. Whether he was retaining his sanity, Dorian couldn't tell.

"I feel entitled to flog all that mud off your arse when we're done with that pisshole", he scoffed as soon as they all walked away from the infernal hill.

They sneaked ahead between the scarce howling trees that used to mark a field balk, now turned to ember. A few more steps behind the farm, and they'd be practising targets for the stronghold archers. They climbed up the hill, making an embarrassing, bubbling sound on the soil that had exhausted its absorbing capacity.

The path split off to the caves where Hawke was supposed to look for his friend. There was a lone burned house neatly concealed behind wild locust bushes. They sat by the fireplace in their makeshift shelter, and waited. Dorian's mind was encroached by an urge to get clean.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't decide: am I too slow or is time too fast? =_=


	21. Daring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor decides to retreat. Back in Skyhold, she calls people for some leisure time, which brings a rather personal issue to Dorian's attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: lyrium horror, mentions of abusive control, non-sexual nudity, alcohol consumption, bad banter

Flames in a modest hearth beckoned at their thirsty hands, held out to draw some warmth. The initial shock wore off and they let themselves think. Dorian was in two minds. One urged to tell Trevelyan off for being the utter reckless idiot who unnecessarily made his heartbeat quicken. He had expected _something_ would have tested the other mage's temper. But by the Maker, did it have to be _this_?

Dorian could have done something to prepare him. A warning, anything. A part of him was one step away from saying sorry, though that had hardly ever been something to come out of a peacock's bill. The Ostwickan was staring at an austere clay cup with thin blood lotus tea that Gwenaelle had made to help them calm their nerves. There was no explanation, no augury on the bottom of the liquid. Only the prophane, disgusting dregs.

"Lyrium, eh? I don't recall lyrium telling me that I'd make good manure for horrors", Amalric tittered. "I saw what was left of Kirkwall's Knight-Commander. A sizzling skeleton clad in... that thing. I didn't expect it to be so dreadful in the flesh."

"Absolutely tasteless, isn't it? Evil in this land has an _awful_ sense of persuasive captivation", Dorian replied. He was sorely tempted to reveal the most puzzling detail of his discovery in the alternate future, the appearance of life in red lyrium. Life that carried a message, therefore was endowed with some sort of sentience. But the dark future was guarded by Inquisitor's and Dorian's oath of silence. And the confidentiality was killing him. The only person who could understand the situation in all seriousness was still away and having just as serious concerns.

"How do you feel now?", he asked.

"I think I've had enough experimenting for a while."

"Agreed", Dorian gave a faint smile. But the power they'd just faced was hardly anything they could wave off by telling morbid jokes. If that was to become their daily ordeal, springing up like mushrooms in every corner of the world, the fighting was likely to exhaust them quicker than they'd expected. More than that, it made mages redundant, vulnerable, quite sensibly – a herd to be protected. What had been a smile, became a grim wince on Dorian' face. Corypheus found himself a line of expansion that weakened all the mages first, unless... unless, craving for survival and reassurance, they tapped in a different source of magic. One that bound their fate to Elder One's gruesome deity, the blood-drinker who could punish the slightest snub with annihilation of kingdoms. Or so the legends said.

How much of it had poor Trevelyan _really_ understood prior to his shake-up, having spent a lifetime sheltered from the real meaning of the evils that threatened their mage nature? How much could a Circle mage _really_ know about its temptations? Dorian shrugged the cold off his back, a creepy little creature biting the limbs to make sure they didn't go numb. The lad was growing onto him. And Dorian was getting curious about the whole Circle thing. Could the mages out there have personal, non-magical interests? Could they see each other? Could they form bonds, or anything? Or were they coerced into celibacy just like the Chantry's clergy? So many questions boiling down to one, which was: Did Dorian and his friend from Ostwick have a common problem in regards with... getting closer with other people, and that included... more-than-friendly closeness?

At last, Lavellan and her escort paraded from the hills, with another scrupulously cloaked figure gliding behind Hawke's back. A knight? With lavish raven-black mustache? ( _Too_ lavish, actually. Couldn't hold the candle to Dorian's.) The Inquisitor addressed her scouts: no time for explanations. She frowned at the very revelation about the rift and the fortress. A group of Wardens was searching for the Inquisition's contact. Hawke suspected the Wardens of Orlais had fallen under Corypheus's influence. The Inquisition needed to withdraw at once.

"What about Crestwood?", Dorian asked.

"Not this time. Their situation is dire but stable. We'll leave them supplied and hurry Cullen to send reinforcements", Lavellan crouched by the fireplace.

"How long will it take to get the reinforcements, weeks?"

"They should endure. We can't attack the fortress with this squad", she shook her head. "Have you seen red lyrium up the hill, by the quarries?"

"More than seen", he pouted. "It nearly turned our brains inside out."

"That means the templars are here", the Inquisitor said fiercely. "If we've had the luck to avoid them so far, let's not strain that luck."

"Vishante kaffas", Dorian whined. "I haven't suffered through all the indignity and discomfort to pack my duds and accomplish nothing."

"This place is one big stinky trap, Sparkler. Including the weather", Varric sighed. The crossbow on his back, now covered by a cape, stood out like a huge, sore hump. "What wold you do? Defend it all alone?"

For all it's worth, he _could have_. He knew it and Lavellan knew it. Warden Blackwall stepped up as well, moaning and grunting in heavy armour:

"Let me stay and help the villagers. Your new contact can help you with your mission much more than I. Poor sods in the guard could always use someone able to stand a skirmish", he bumped his breastplate with a closed fist.

"No. No-one is playing a hero today", the Inquisitor bellowed to outshout the rain. Then, she sized them up and down as if she was dealing with a group of children.

Following her with their eyes for a while, people started breaking camp and packing up. Lavellan arose and called Dorian on the side. Everything around them was cloaked in a grey haze – muzzy hills, ponds of mud, one greater lake at the bottom, and another falling from the sky. Dorian wasn't sure what seemed worse: the Fade ultimately collapsing onto them, or that overwhelming, uniform shroud of grey produced in nature's desperate adjustment to the strange rival powers.

He slowly came to terms with impending joint pains. Even the Inquisitor rubbed and adjusted her shoulder, as if the wet an cold started eating into her bones. The rain had already seeped through the ruins of a scorched hut, intensifying the smell of smoke and musty wood. Lavellan grunted a few times, rubbing her neck and shoulders, before she got to the point:

"That amount of lyrium was... just too much. Don't you see? They leave a trace of red lyrium wherever they go. They don't mine it where it comes out, they come to grow it. We'll have to issue a warning... to everyone."

He replied with a faint nod.

"Was it bad? As bad as in... the future?", she asked.

"As bad as you'd expect from red lyrium. It seems to take a greater toll on us mages. We must find a way to protect ourselves in the future, or we all...", he paused. Lavellan inquired with a worried frown. "Or we become the evil so many want to see. It will take our minds long before our bodies."

Which was a horrible perspective. Dorian going rampant from the dark whisperings in his head, to eventually become a drooling, glowing extension of some vile entity? His mind was too precious. His body was too precious. He surely hadn't boosted all that confidence to let a speaking chunk of living trepidation petrify his heart and liver.

"If it was up to me, I wouldn't let anyone take your mind", she replied. "But I can't promise to protect you. Or anyone, for that matter. Even if we get rid of Corypheus, this lyrium will prevail. Whatever it wants to unleash will remain a threat."

Dorian leant against an ashen doorframe, his arms crossed. "You have Hawke and Varric who have dealt with it before, a fearless arcanist, and Tranquil scholars at your disposal. Something useful will turn up between them."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm _usually_ right. And, of course, I will help bypass the danger however I can."

She turned back, rather unconvinced, and gave a sign to march back to the carriages.

The few days on the way to Skyhold felt like an eternity. They dragged the uniform greyness behind them to the very Orzammar crossroads. "We'll be home by the First Day", Varric tried to cheer up. Sadly, the upcoming new year celebration felt rather bleak. Surely, a day off with free cake and ale rations was called for to raise the morale. Even though, Dorian couldn't bring himself to feel that something new was beginning. It wasn't the greatest timing to begin anything. More than anyone, The Inquisitor and Dorian had to chew on their own bits of disheartening awareness – the time being slowly stolen from them, the countdown to the Elder One's victory ongoing. It could as well show its progress by the amount of red lyrium taking control over the landscape. Ironically, knowing the threatening ending wouldn't help them grasp the breaking point, the moment when chances to affect the situation would be lost and the consequences simply left to unwind. Among the unfathomable threads of fate, their world could have already been beaded onto a doomed path. But for the sake of the people, they needed to hold the remaining year tightly, and to find the stray branching thread that held a survivable future.

At least, red lyrium gave Dorian an opportunity to talk to Varric in a more direct manner, without a need to stay wary of his ommissions, runarounds and red herrings. About that one thing Tethras cared deep enough to drop his shifty strategies. It appeared that the substance could only be neutralized using traditional methods of dealing with raw lyrium: thick lead containers, crafted exclusively by the Smith Caste.

"I suspect that simply smashing the veins will do more harm than good."

"It will produce dust that you can easily breathe in. Our miners get the dust stuck in their lungs on a daily basis. No idea how we could simply shut the thing up."

"This is bad news. The greater the concentration, the harder it will be to resist its malignant impact on our minds", Dorian scratched his chin. "Unless we all start wearing armours made of pure lead."

"Samson, the leader of the templar army, seemed to have an armor imbued in red lyrium. Something about that armor must keep him from falling apart", Varric squinted. "Back in our day, he was a decent templar turned into a lyrium junkie. If anyone can let us in about the guy, it's Curly."

They fell silent for a while, then Varric started shaking his head.

"Andraste's ass."

"Something the matter?"

"I need a serious talk with the Inquisitor. About more crazy shit that might have slipped our attention back in the Kirkwall days”, Varric grunted.

"The next council will be big, won't it?" Dorian asked.

"Yeah", the dwarf sighed, resigned. He clearly wasn't in a mood for a longer chat.

Skyhold greeted them with an invitation for the long deserved rest. One reason to celebrate was the completion of Cullen's office rooftop, successful in spite of poor Commander's grunting about hundreds of imaginary urgent repairs. The Warden contact swiftly disappeared, most likely snatched by Cassandra and Leliana. Dorian was already turning away to take a bath in his quarters, when a different plan for the afternoon turned up. Lower in the Frostbacks, less than an hour away from the fortress, there was a hot spring with well preserved remains of soaring arcades and avian carvings. Inquisitor didn't mind their going there. Perhaps it was some sort of distraction. Some questions in Skyhold needed to remain unasked.

“Let's forget about all the duties until tomorrow. Or about Crestwood. Whatever you prefer”, Lavellan persuaded. Dorian hesitated, suddenly stricken by a bout of stupid shame.

"Come along, Dorian, you'll warm up and relax. I can't believe I need to convince you”, she called. He couldn't simply tell the Inquisitor that, attractive as he undoubtedly was, he didn't exactly enjoy showing his _entire_ physique to groups of people. He was promptly reminded of the time when he was younger, when he discovered Father's servants in disguise following him in the public baths. All they accomplished was make him fear a reprimand for not hiding the nature of his excitements well enough. They made him believe that every foul step, even in the most private matters, was observed from afar and could destroy the family.

Vishante kaffas, _yes_ , he would have been embarrassed in front of other men. But this was Ferelden. Nobody would pay him attention, unless in the good way. No? He sighed, staggered by the necessity to repel so much pointless fluff from his head. The feeling of uncleanliness from Crestwood didn't cease to pester him. No, it was reinforced by a much, much older one.

"You know I'm a creature of comfort. I'd gladly sign up for something more... luxurious. A wine tasting session against a stunning landscape, perhaps. But Maker have mercy, not with the local cheese”, he told the Inquisitor.

"I should kick you out to live in a forest for a year so you forget about all your luxuries”, Lavellan smiled.

“That's how I spent my first weeks in the South. Definitely don't miss them.”

“We can all have a dinner in the wild after the bath.”

Oh what the heck, what was the worst thing that could have happened? Father jumping out of the bushes, begging Dorian to stop providing food for his lusts and marry Herathinos like a good man? _This_ was a thing of the past. The present was too precious to get squandered over petty unresolved anxieties. Dorian promised himself to stop tiptoeing around the issues that were respected everywhere _except_ the Altus community of Tevinter.

“On second thoughts, I feel dirty _and_ pretty close to hungry”, he said.

Equipped with a fresh change of clothes and food bundles, they marched on along a spiraling path downwards. The place must have been used for meetings, perhaps for ritual ablutions, some aquatic deity worship even. It was impossible to tell from the look of three stone basins built upon a stair-like terrace of rock shelves, and a groove in the mountain wall that shaped the waters above into a humble shower. Whoever built the place knew how to harness the nature's utility without taking its beauty away. At last, they could savour a soothing view again.

As Dorian found out soon enough, the water that fell from above dealt the most ruthless sort of whipping, icy blows he'd ever experienced.

“C-c-coohohoolddd!”, his cry of shock and betrayal fled through the basin. Echo replied with cheerful laughter of the crowd. Hunched down and trembling in every bone, Dorian jiggled to the nearest evaporating pool. So much for avoiding the embarrassment. Bloody congratulations, Pavus. Luckily enough, he didn't drop his smallclothes while running, which saved the last remains of his modesty. With his gaze fixed up on his own feet, feeling the heat of shame radiating from every inch of his face, he entered the hot spring to silently drown in embarrassment. Soon, Blackwall and Trevelyan competed who would endure in the waterfall for longer. The one who wouldn't end up numb from hypothermia was promised a second helping. Luckily, both ended up squealing like pigs within a blink of an eye. In fact, Dorian outdid them both, but he wasn't going to brag.

As soon as he submerged up to the neck, the sensation compensated all the shame. The hissing of the water, its delicate savoury whiff, the mellow sunlight flickering in the waterfall - all of it emptied the mind of its concerns. Everyone seemed united in this healing aura, leaning back and not allowing any petty annoyance to reach them.

"I must come here to sleep one day. Strong healing energies linger in the stone, memories of the people who cultivated medicinal magic. I wonder what the passing of time has obscured”, Solas spun a drowsy melody.

“The spot is splendid indeed. I feel pleasantly rejuvenated”, Dorian said.

“Sometimes I envy the young ones their resilience and... flexibility”, the elf sighed.

"You are kidding me right now, aren't you? My dear Solas, there's no way in the world you could be much older than I”, Dorian chuckled. For a split of a moment, the apostate's face looked completely blank. Did Dorian get something wrong? Did elves have a fundamentally different lifespan or something? Were the matters of youth and “quickening” their weak spot? Was Dorian having one of these days when he'd better not open his mouth at all? The corners of the apostate's mouth lifted cautiously, swallowing the offence, if there was any. One could never tell with that eel.

“That... is much more flattering than you could think. Thank you”, Solas grimaced, studying Dorian with his eyes.

"Cheers, then. Take it for a pure, unadulterated compliment.”

Steaming hot and properly exhausted, Dorian diplomatically withdrew towards the dressed folk dining on the side. They were merry and they had liquors. “You should have known well by now that drinking evenings without _me_ don't count. I'm not sure if I  can forgive this misdemeanour”, Dorian sneered.

“You've mentioned you opted for some wine tasting? Come along”, Lavellan beckoned.

“Opening Pissin-au de Oldeberry, from That Funny Guy's Cellar, 8:88”, miss Sera announced.

“It kicks in quicker when you're fresh from the heat”, Amalric explained. "I must admit, I was going to show you what a squish you were under the waterfall, but now I feel your pain. It was freezing hell", the man stopped himself from laughing. Why would he always laugh, or be really close to laughter?

“More precisely, I endured _twice_ your record”, Dorian tutted. He sat down next to the object of his questionable interest ( _Potentially_. If the banters between the meant anything), and chugged the first cup of wine. It was sour but strong. As if strengthened. Brought the northern parts of Orlais to mind.

“How was the hot spring?” Trevelyan asked. “Got lost in thoughts?”

"I was killing time in the finest company of myself, rating the Inquisition by the measurable qualities of gluteal muscles.”

"That's interesting”, the other mage chortled. “Who won?”

He had to _already_ be under influence to take _that_ seriously. But the joke obliged. "After long consideration, I must give an inch to Tethras”, Dorian replied. A choir of loud, impressed “Oooooohs” ensued.

“By the ancestors, I must write it down in history: the day Sparkler rated my ass higher than his own. That really bolstered my confidence”, Varric sneered gently. The Inquisitor started giggling beyond control.

"Now ya talkin' some friggin' sense! Here's for the best arse! And for the arse expert!", the elf Sera cheered, lifting a bottle of “Pissin-au”. Sweet, innocent child, if only she knew the width of Dorian's expertise.

They managed to return to Skyhold by dusk without getting killed in the mountains, which counted as a little miracle considering their slightly altered state. The Inquisitor kept her promise. All the concerns were suspended. Dorian went to bed with a feeling of relief. Who knew if not for the last time.

What mattered, no-one would remember his blunder. No-one would validate his shame. For a while, Dorian felt truly at peace. And it was priceless. It felt like he'd been relieved from an old fear. Nobody cared, and that realisation opened a path before him. Maybe he could try to start something new. Maybe he could dare to feel and to desire while he still led this other life in the South.


	22. Streaks of opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the First Day Eve, Dorian takes a large leap forward in personal affairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode contains non-e-rated M/M fondling and kissing. There's alcohol involved, but the situation is far from dub-con.
> 
> This is a definitive beginning of the first romance arc. Yay?

The Fereldan concept of the First Day Eve were songs and dances. Weird, brisk, quick and thumping dances, so thunderous that they must have been designed to include the dogs and bears as partners. And so, the Skyhold denizens pranced around the courtyard, cheering and clapping loud enough to alarm the Orlesian army on the other side of the mountain pass. Long tables in the throne hall bent under the winter dishes: chopped nug sausage, ram pudding, lamb and pea roast, deep-fried perennial radishes, cabbage crumpets, bean stew, and other delicacies that made Dorian wonder whether the Fereldan handbook of good manners included dealing with flatulence. Luckily, the only flavours discernible in the air so far were gnawing candle smoke and half decent beer.

The final amaranth afterglow of the sunset disappeared behind the walls. The guards started sheperding people into the hall. The mass filled every standing spot with their billowy heat. Lady Josephine stepped in, fluttering with some Antivan novelty that went between a dress and loose trousers. The clicking of her heels hushed the mob in one rapid wave before the Inquisitor's chambers opened up and delivered another couple of guards. It took a while – a dignified while, indeed – until Lavellan glided downstairs, showing off a new formal armour: delicate burnished scales, plated with red gold, streaming down a fitting leather suit with tall riding boots. The doublet, broadened in the shoulders, compensated for her willowy sihouette, making her overall look solemn and... military. Dorian wasn't sure what message the advisers wanted to sent when they designed the armour, alas...

The Inquisitor swept the hall with a somewhat flushed out expression and took a deep breath. The crowd during trials and regular announcements had hardly ever been that large.

"You may ask if our enthusiasm to unwind and celebrate isn't too quick. You may ask if there's anything we achieved in Crestwood. The mission has met unexpected setbacks, but we have acquired a significant contact who has pointed us in a new direction. We have caught a glimpse of Corypheus's plan, and we have discovered that our mission will take us much further than we foresaw. This evening, I'd like to use the opportunity to announce to you all that our next destination is the Western Approach."

The Western Approach… extents of desert remaining after a vast area stricken by the First Blight, burying the secrets that could have been millenia old… perhaps all still intact. A poisonous wasteland that blazed with unabashed sunlight. That breathed sulphur gases at the menacing feet of a fire mountain whose charred spittle blocked all the paths to the far West. As if the place was doomed once and for all, never to be reclaimed by life again. The silence of death and stasis that Corypheus needed to gather his army of demons and abominations.

Exploration of such a place was no mean feat. That the Inquisition intended to move there meant one thing: they needed aid from the Orlesian Court and from the University in Val Royeaux. Going worldwide couldn't happen overnight, especially that they won a great nothing in Crestwood. As useless as the region seemed for now, it would have been an insult to the Empress if the Inquisition discovered invaluable treasures in bare sand, taking advantage of the court's lassitude.

"In the year to come, we will advance further and further into the Orlesian Empire, bringing aid and hope to places afflicted by the Elder One's scheme. We will present ourselves at the Imperial Court of Orlais during the upcoming Great Summerday Ball. Needless to say, we will need to work hard towards greater efficiency, better infrastructure and working conditions, greater renown."

By the way, how would Orlesians endure with a Dalish leader roaming freely in the _Dales_ , undoubtedly soliciting _their_ people for a cause? Something told Dorian that the spring to follow provided for increased risk of gout, apoplexy, and arsenic posioning.

At any rate, the prospect was fascinating. What would the Inquisition do without its chief court Tevinter in an area where every remaining man-made structure carried a signature of the ancient Imperium? How could Dorian himself resist the temptation to unearth a few pieces of his land's history?

"This is why I encouraged the people to relax until the end of year. When a new one arrives, there will be no rest. So, today we drink and dance, and clear our heads from all the concerns. Southerners have acquainted me with a custom of releasing all the anger and resentment onto an effigy before midnight. The passing year's scapegoat is a likeness of Corypheus. Let us come to the courtyard and bid it a proper farewell!"

The music burst from flutes and pipes, and the crowd flew back out just as it appeared. There was only a handful of people left in the hall, either sucked up to the tables or cooling down after the dances. If the First Day Eve's events were somehow believed to foretell the course of the whole following year, then by all means, woe to Dorian's poor head and to proper amounts of sleep.

The confidence in Inquisitor's eyes only lasted as long as her speech. She loosened her sleeves and plunged on the throne, indifferent to the shouting outside.

"You look like you could use some of that public puppet lashing", Dorian raised a cup of wine and strolled towards her. "Back home, we only have lenghty sermons explaining why the Old Gods are _bad_ now. But this celebration? It's rather impressive. The effigy wears a pair of quality red silks _I_ have generously donated." The silks got attached to a parsley that, according to Sera, was supposed to represent "a huge prick like Cory-pimp himself". The hidden symbolism of the effigy was impresive. "Miss Sera put really much thought into it. Such a shame that the dummy goes down into the mountain abyss."

The Inquisitor dragged her eyes behind him. "If only a simple gesture could grant us protection and ensure our progress. But magic doesn't work like that, does it?"

"Does something trouble you? Something not so suitable for a hortatory speech?"

She lowered her gaze, chewing on the words. "One day we can barely retrieve an agent under a teyrn's nose, next day we're supposed to launch a great campaign in Orlesian frontiers. It's pure folly."

"Don't underestimate your people. Or yourself, though that seems less likely, judging from today's little display", he said. "The wine is really good. If you deny yourself with _that_ , I will be genuinely offended."

"I think I'll retreat for today. I've got some thinking to do."

"You aren't going to see Corypheus thrown at with moldy vegetables and incinerated, his ashes scattered from the ramparts? That would make a catastrophic omen for many of your followers."

"I'd rather keep all of it for the day I meet him in the flesh again."

Perhaps the choice of armour for her formal outfit made the most sense after all, if she wanted to keep up this combative facade so much. The question was, how was she doing underneath it all, behind discreet strokes of a more despondent attitude. A question not appropriate for Dorian, quite likely.

The fireplaces outside made the courtyard surprisingly warm. The short cape that was a part of Dorian's armour sufficed to cover his shoulders. He could swear some of the fireplaces were sustained with magic, sporadically flashing with a shade of yellow too bright for natural flames. He strained his eyes, searching for Amalric's knightly silhouette among tabards and armours polished up to reflect the pervasive golden lustre. On the top of the ramparts between the mage hive and the Inquisitor's tower, first embers were rising on a ritual pyre.

He knew he would never feel prepared. He wasn't great at these talks, not even at giving hints that he wouldn't have nullified with mockery. And he hadn't tried to capture anyone's attention for _so long_. But, for all Dorian knew, he'd left the stifling Altus society, where the only permitted emotions were pride for the country, love of one's duty, and ire at the enemy, where any mention that a romantic bond should be uncoerced and unashamed of its vulnerability was cut dead or downplayed as puppyish pipe-dreams. A lover is an ideal target for all the sludge, Father would say. When they dish out on one lover, both are covered in filth. Sadly, in other situations, Father's definitions of filth turned out pretty flexible to his own convenience.

For once, Dorian could simply wade into a torrent of infatuation without worrying to look like an idiot, why bloody not? If Alexius and his wife could bond out of affection, then Dorian could try as well. If only he moved his arse to make something of his daydreaming. It all sounded so easy in Dorian's head, but he half-expected some old lingering anxiety to pop in unwarranted and make him say something awful, just to get things over with. Or to refrain from biting back when someone would hold his affairs against him, because deep inside he learned to expect _just that_ for getting too close to someone else.

It was expectable of a former Circle mage to be rather secretive about carnal endeavours, but what of the desires that reached beyond that? Would he allow anything like that to surface? To find out, Dorian would have to break through the muddle of words, words, words. Words that never sounded as they should have, and betrayed Dorian's fervor before he felt in control of it.

He found his lost one strolling between the tavern and the smithy in a fitted leather doublet, hands folded behind his back. He was observing the procession, that followed the fake Corypheus on his shaming pilgrimage across the castle, with a dreamy smile and a gentle glimmer in his eyes. The campfire gleam sharpened his high, slightly rounded cheekbones and lips mildly curved downward, Maker take him with that face. It would have been most pitiful to waste that moment.

Dorian took a sharp, pinching portion of the cold air in, and stepped up.

"What a refreshing revelation we've just heard. The Western Approach! The site of the First Blight, formerly an Imperial province that prospered from sulphur excavation. Hopefully, our operations in the area will bring more than a handful of sand in everyone's pants."

"Oh, it's you", Trevelyan turned at him, blinking the smoky whiff away. "The Approach? Yes. That would be amazing. If we get a chance to go there, that is."

"Have I distracted you, by any chance?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that... I didn't expect to be lucky to see such things happen in front of my eyes. I... I'd like to consult something with you. As my principal... in a sense. If you don't mind", the Ostwickan kicked the dirt and evaded Dorian's glance.

A dull, twisting sensation crawled through Dorian's insides. Being Amalric's principal suddenly felt somewhat twisted and inappropriate, as if Dorian had never really _earned_ the respect and admiration that would come from it. That nasty Tevinter superstition came to mind, the one the Altus used against everyone else in the country. Some are born to serve and obey? Horseshit. Dorian wasn't a principal. He was a glorified paper filler. He loved the admiration, true, but real power over people... he was at odds with power. And he definitely didn't want power over the people he cared about.

They moved into the tavern's first floor, unchangeably busy with its own life of cheap drinks, hearty laughters, and Wicked Grace shuffles. Trevelyan sat down edgeways and leant his back on the wall, smoothening something invisible on the table surface.

"I... can't say I feel very good about making big choices. And now there's a chance... We're going to Orlais at some point, right? They train knight enchanters in the Empress's courts. Real ones. When I was still in the Circle, I applied for transfer a few times, even to Montsimmard. But it was a time when more and more mages from the Marches tried to flee to the more lenient Circles in the South, and they rejected us indiscriminately. Do you think I could apply now? Since I’m doing something for the Inquisition? I heard Enchanter Vivienne originally came from the Circle in Ostwick. Do you think that she could put in a good word about me if I hung around?”

"I... know better uses of vaseline than greasing this particular pair of boots", Dorian replied.

"Can it be that bad?", Amalric asked. "It _can't_ be worse than some things that can win an average Circle mage a favour, can it?"

The uneasiness in Dorian's stomach was now joined by unannounced gloom. He nodded at the barsmaid to bring a flask and a cheese platter. Forget the darned cheese. Another drink wouldn't have hurt, if only to stop minding all the people bustling around.

"I spent enough time around people like Vivienne to know the price for their backrub. And you... don't seem like a person who would be content with that path to achievement. But, Fiona hasn't simply vanished. A spectre of her old power she is, but still, she had connections in Orlais back in her day, no? And she seems more... casual, and rather desperate for someone to help her redeem herself."

Trevelyan sighed and poured himself a glass of wine. "She was the First Enchanter in Montsimmard when I first applied for the transfer. We exchanged letters and it ended up with a polite refusal. I... have no need to upset her again."

Ones not taught to use their heads had no need for courage, Father would say. He'd forget to mention the state in between when the courage didn't measure up to the ideas in one's head. So, the ideas withered, prohibited from sparking any action. Pushed down deeper and deeper, they left only confusion. Of all the people, Amalric Trevelyan didn't deserve to be confused.

"No, no. Don't just stifle your dream because my words were discouraging. I felt it would be a right thing to warn you. But from now on, if becoming a knight enchanter is what you want... then I have your back", Dorian said gently.

"Ah... thank you. I... should probably stop right here."

 _Don't_ hug him. Whatever you do, _do not hug_. Kaffas. Dorian followed his companion's lead and filled a cup as well. If his head was going to start spinning any time soon, it had better been from the alcohol.

"Stop? Why is that so? We _have_ wandered off a bit into mushy fraternal confessions, true, but it doesn't have to be a bad thing. At any rate, I cannot let you brood about forfeited opportunities until the new year arrives. Unless... you've already made an appointment for the rest of the evening."

"No, it's fine. Actually, I'm glad you found me." Trevelyan undid a couple of upper buttons of his doublet, showing a flushed neck and an alluring gap leading deeper downwards. After another heavy sigh, he took a solid swig. "So... fraternal confessions, you say, hm? Are you all alone here? Did you leave any family back in Tevinter?"

This was going to be a tough round. "I'm on my own. About family? Well, I have family in Tevinter. But I left them long before I came here", Dorian answered.

"That's interesting" Trevelyan's gaze wandered up and down, always to end up grappling Dorian's lips. "What happened?"

"I refused to marry the girl who'd been meant for me since the days we were born. But not only this. I wasn't the heir they had dreamt of, generally speaking."

"You were the _heir_? And they _let_ you go?"

"Let? Oh, no. It involved much swearing and ardent promises of disinheritance."

"They must be furious."

"They must."

"And the girl?"

"Probably relieved." The beaming lightness, that had started making itself comfortable on Amalric's visage again, vanished and left his eyes dull in worry. Dorian didn't enjoy it very much when people _worried_ about him. A paralyzing pause broke in.

"So, you came to the South to start over?", Amalric finally asked.

"Pursuit of Alexius was the reason. Since I _have_ ended up here, starting over isn't half bad an idea. If I survive long enough to have any plans for the future."

"Do you _have_ any plans?"

"Not quite. Not... yet. I don't know how my country will react to my involvement with the Inquisition. You never know with the currents in the Magisterium. One day you're praised in front of the whole Senate, next day you're proclaimed a traitor and a maleficarum. One day, I might have to accept that I have burned all the bridges."

"The Inquisition is a blessing, isn't it? At least for underdogs like us", Amalric restrained another wave of chortling. "To the underdogs, then. May we _have_ a future to outline, away from... whatever we're running from. May the running stop, and new opportunities arise."

They clunk their cups and got one step closer to the doom of loosened tongues. Then, they agreed to walk outside, get some fresh air, and see the procession before it would end. They stopped in a patch of safe, unbothered darkness where the staircase to the throne room took a turn, leaning their backs against the wall. They waited for the procession to ascend from the lower parts of the courtyard. For now, the loud music could be heard somewhere by the stables. What if they simply got carried away and started dancing along, having no idea about Fereldan barn dances? Dorian spent his childhood frolicking in the great halls to every eurhythmic known from Dairsmuid to Ghislain, but he had no foggiest idea about Fereldan barn dances. That would have been rampant, chaotic stomping. What an absolutely barbaric concept.

The feast tables by the dungeon entrance slowly became deserted. The victims of heavy drinking, who didn't make it to midnight, snoozed between empty platters. Before Dorian realised, Trevelyan shortened the distance between them. Sleeves and thighs touched, sharing the radiating aura of heat. Only then did Dorian realise how starved he had been all along. Selling himself for a hint of kindness.

He had to make himself clear, but not _too_ bold. His hand slithered under Trevelyan's arm, following the soft curl of the man's waistline. Amalric reciprocated, of course he would have. While one of his hands stroked Dorian's shoulder, the other found the quickened pulse on his stomach. Slowly leaning closer, Amalric tightened the angle between them, until the rhythm of his diaphragm nudged Dorian's cloth. But, one step from a glorious disaster, self-consciousness attacked him like a swarm of maddened insects. Not like that, not here. Not enough darkness or cover. He let out a somewhat tortured grunt and gently withdrew, adjusting his armour.

"The view on this performance must be much better from my quarters, if you care to sign up", Dorian purred, breaking out of the dangerous clinch. "Otherwise... I wish you good night's rest, and a joyous new year altogether", he nodded before strutting away. If only the other one cared to follow...

Frustration stretched the time it took him to reach the recessed balcony above the gardens. Don't look back, don't show concern. It was the most casual, inconspicuous thing in the world, he repeated to himself. He lit a small orb in each corner of his chamber, lounged behind the desk, and waited with his eyes closed, wrapped in a uniform blotch of faint light.

The cheering outside knocked him out of his beginning slumber. They were discarding Corypheus with triumphant calls and a surge of drums leading the last dance. And there wasn't a quietest hum behind Dorian's door. Well, another big nothing, it seemed. The next day he'd circle around Trevelyan, and apologize to him for the brashness, and say that he didn't mean to spoil their prospecting friendship like _that_. Then, he'd hear "No, no, it isn't about _you_ ", or another one of these vague excuses which would only make it clear that this particular field in their souls had gone barren and completely useless.

When he was ready to call it a day, a year, anything, and sleep through the disappointment, something rustled on the balcony to turn into footsteps. He bestirred at the sound of knocking at his door, adjusting his pose on the chair to look relaxed and nonchalant, even though the orchestra on the inside picked the nervous tune up once more. Invited inside, Trevelyan lurked from behind the door. "You aren't asleep yet?"

"Well, we aren't quite done yet, are we?", Dorian chirped. There was just the two of them... and the words. Dorian lifted himself up and approached the man with slow, swaggering steps, a sight for sore eyes. The Ostwickan rubbed his wrists and spoke:

"I don't suppose I've had a chance to thank you yet. Back then in Crestwood... you have saved my arse. And earlier today, you showed that you took me seriously. I want to take you seriously too. And I... don't want you to be alone."

Ugh. _Ugh_. Not that he'd be irritated with the emotional tone, no. On the contrary. It hit the target, and left Dorian ready to bleed, should he pull the arrow out. That... was going to be harder than he'd thought. A lot harder.

"Alone? How can I ever be alone if I'm always accompanied by myself? Nevermind", Dorian slowed and turned his voice down into the alluring hum once again. "Your acknowledgment was very nice, thought I find it sorely lacking in some departments."

Before Amalric's eyebrows knotted into a "what in the Abyss is he talking about now" response, Dorian pulled him down and gave him a taste of those lips praised from Minrathous to the Hundred Pillar western outpost. Heat poured down his torso like mead. Like that line from _Carmenum di Amatus_ : Not merely housed in flesh, but...

"See? Now it's perfect. Your thanks are accepted", Dorian looked the other man deep in the eyes gleaming with a golden reflection of the orb light. "Carry on, if you would."

Trevelyan untagled Dorian from the cuts of his doublet and hugged himself. "That... would be all for now. I need some time to think... about what we've just done. And what I want to do about it next."

" _Think?_ ", Dorian drawled. For all he'd known so far, _that_ spelled polite refusal. No, this couldn't be _it_.

"I don't want this to be like... Forgive me", Trevelyan mumbled and ran as if he had burnt himself.

Trevelyan didn't want it... like what? He must have meant it wasn't over, right? There was no need to pretend not to know each other the day after, no need to spread awkward silence over the smothered confessions. Once again, Dorian found himself chasing the billows of useless whisperings in his head. The world wouldn't end the next day, right? Hopefully. There was _some_ time to relish the thing and take it further.

When the other man left his room, he realised he needed some contemplation as well. To deal with the turmoil he'd brought upon his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I altered the romantic bits - no plot points will be changed, only the delivery and the tone (gotta be responsible for the mess I've made xD). The first version felt weird and undercooked, and it kept bothering me. Not to mention I'm self-conscious about writing rawmaaance.


	23. An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter from Tevinter arrives at last, and the news isn't best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode conveys the news that the game shows from the Inquisitor's viewpoint, showing Dorian put up a facade as always - even make asshole jokes, if you choose proper dialogue wheel options. But death of an object means death of a part of one's ego. 
> 
> Contains grief and Cole's Shock Therapy.
> 
> Also, probably invalidates many introspective paragraphs in the first chapters of _Bloodline_.

“I want to take you seriously”... where had he heard that before? Ah, yes. At Magister Edstra's party that gave Father indigestion days ahead, because Alexius and he were lobbying to make military healthcare available for the Soporati of Minrathous in times of truce and peace. Even though Dorian had already been staying with Alexius for a few months, two magister friends negotiated that it would have been most appropriate if Dorian showed up by his father's side. What mattered more than Dorian's discomposure caused by this arrangement, Magister Edstra had a son. A breathtakingly beautiful son Rillienus: skin like smoky whiskey, black hair with a reddish glow, shaded cheeks, lips curling when he smiled, silhouette chiseled like a statue from the Steel Age. Naturally, Dorian and Rilienus noticed each other. But, on that party, Rilienus told Dorian: “I'm getting married after the harvest. You're getting married too, from what I've heard. I'd like to take you serious, but... is there a point if we can't even write letters without raising suspicion?”

Dorian had to watch all the love seeds get ground in the quern of social correctness. Rillienus preferred to stay on the safe side. This time, Dorian would almost insist to change the man's mind. Even for a while. A week spent overlooking the harvest season and giving each other something to remember. But he didn't say a word. As long as Father kept himself well informed about the family's potential allies and associates, Dorian had never said a word.

The sunrise was only just breaking through his window when vehement knocking on the door ripped him out of thought. 

“We have the expertise of the orb core from Lady Dagna. We’re meeting in the study in a moment”, Enchanter Gwenaelle hooted through the door. 

“Ah, yes, I’ll be there right away.” Still wrapped in the quilt, he stuck a foot out into the brutal, ungrateful world, and hissed from the freezing jolt panging in his toes. The company wouldn't appreciate if that “right now” had lasted another hour.

The company sat together at the research table in the library, circling the orb core they’d retrieved. Even now, Dagna was drilling the test object with an intense frown, as if it was a stubborn obstacle that didn’t want to disappear.

“So? What are our fascinating results?”, Dorian asked.

“There’s nothing fascinating. Just a bunch of errors”, Dagna grunted. “These results are rubbish. Most gave me false positives for Fade parameters. As if the enchanted alloy was made… in the Fade. Or from the Fade.”

“Hm”, Dorian sat down and scratched his chin. “Could the Veil anomaly distort the measurements?”

“I’m afraid so. Seems I need to work on a better procedure before I can really help”, the dwarven arcanist bent her mouth into a tiny regretful horseshoe.

“Just don't hurry. Haste doesn't help. Anything else? Something to noticeably push the work forward?”

“I’ve examined the orb through a doubled emerald screen, and recovered some worn-off sigil traces”, Tamsine replied. “And as you well know, the contemporary Almanac _won’t_ help us identify or recover them, save a few basic symbols.”

“One more reason to address the Grand Archives in Minrathous. I’ll add _Arcana Obliqui Elvenarum_ to our wish list”, Dorian nodded. 

“I think there might be a way to adjust spell shielding methods so that the energy spent on spellcasting harmonizes the Veil. Though I expect the effects to be negligible in the early phase of work”, Trevelyan avoided Dorian's eyes like fire. And Dorian wondered how long he'd be toyed with before being given the elbow.  


“The thing about spell shielding is that someone must cast at _you_ first”, he replied.

“That's where I'd make the adjustments. The energy that presses forward from the Fade would work like a hostile spell directed at a mage. The shield charging process would be much slower than spellcasting, but if we made the effect sustainable...”

“... As by building artifacts of our own?”, Dorian nibbled the end of his mustache. “Interesting. Let me know how this will be going.”

“The scouts who station near Fade rifts started collecting small amounts of an unidentified substance from demon carcasses and the rifts' closest surroundings. Something oily, slimy and overally nasty. But who knows, maybe we can process it for runes or something”, Ranalle took her turn. 

The companions' eyes got stuck somewhere behind Dorian's back. A runner interrupted with urgent correspondence. The envelope carried a light, soothing scent of Quarinian sea salt and the House Tilani sigil.

“Well, isn’t this… From Tevinter - at last!”, he tried to cheer, but a hunch foreseeing disturbing news ran through his back. “I'm terribly sorry, but you'll need to excuse me. We’ll talk again as soon as I’ve taken a careful look into this”, he bowed to his associates, waving the envelopes in the air. Then, he scurried into the quiet of his chamber. 

The envelope tore apart easily, even though he half-expected some sudden occurrence to postpone the moment of realization. If it was what he thought it was, why did it have to arrive _now_? His affairs had already gotten almost too intense. Maevaris could have written about the Venatori and the Magisterium all she wanted, just not _that one thing_.  


> Tilani Domus Quarini, 21 Cassus 2035 TE

> Dearest Seaside Weasel,

... That woman's nerve at times. For real.

> I am writing this letter with a heart ponderous from several matters. First things first, your father seems to be sniffling about. You know me, I'd rather sleep with a hurlock than let the cat out of the bag about your whereabouts, but our nation's espionage is renowned for a reason. Next, dear Felix Alexius is gone. It took a while since he returned to Minrathous. He still managed to give an exquisite performance in the Senate. He shared the foul intent and coarse methods of the Venatori and praised the Inquisition to the skies, turning several faces in the Magisterium purple as a Dumat icon. Which brings us to the second matter. Following the purple faces’ heritage and affiliations, I have managed to compile a brief list of our mutual acquaintances who are very fond of the Elder One cult. Some of these names should interest you. Should any of them pay you a visit in the South, you can send them a bouquet of foxgloves from me. I highly recommend the red ones.

… And Dorian needed a lot of fresh air. He opened the door to the gallery that overlooked the gardens, staring at the majestic mountain range in the background. The audacious Frostback peeks cropped out above the clouds, as if cut off from the world. Maybe Felix was hiking somewhere, modernizing Orlesian differentials?

What foolish sentiment. Of course he was gone, just as gone as the Nevarran anatomy textbooks could tell. Thirteen pennyweight of spirit that escaped with the final breath, and such. What was even more disconcerting, judging from the overall progress of Felix's taint sickness, he must have made a drastic choice as soon as the illness started affecting his mind. Or, if the alternate future had any credibility, as soon as he discovered new exciting details of becoming a taint ghoul. Never too cautious – too early? It was hard to say. Maybe he finally had an excuse to end it all without the risk of being called a coward by people who acknowledged next to nothing about _any_ sort of pain.

What an utterly shitty ending for one of the best Tevinter had to offer. With Dorian as a close runner-up, but still. Felix had nothing to be ashamed of. No-one forced him to hide his true nature in the shadows. That made him a courageous man, a proud Soporatus where magic was paramount. He didn't make it to show them what a self-aware Soporatus could do. Even with old Alexius corrupt, they could have laid foundations for the new Tevinter. The poor lad longed so much to build something real. But accomplishment wasn't meant for Felix. 

Albeit expected, there was no right timing for that message. More than that, in the lines of Maevaris's letter, there was an Altus code of gifts and decor. Poisonous foxgloves that meant danger. Blooded foxgloves. Maevaris gave Dorian the warning to  _ kill _ every acquaintance from Tevinter who'd arrive to do the Elder One's dirty work. And she wasn't one of the people who would kill before asking questions. These people, who arrived in the South as well, could have been Dorian's former classmates, friends, or worse than that. And there was no point in debating with them anymore. All turned into worms that begged to be squashed.

The gardens below the balcony were empty. Only the apothecary apprentice scrabbled something by the herb patches. Dorian stopped behind a grate of shrivelled vines, blackened and crumbling at slightest pressure.

> I hate to admit, these loud children give me a bit more grief than expected, so I’ve decided to reduce any unusual exchange for the time being. I shall keep all my official correspondence flowing through the Inquisition's embassy and the lovely Lady Montyliet. In case you felt ready to get over certain mishaps, almost-haps and over-my-dead-body-haps, I shall mention in an absolutely casual manner that it is completely safe to get in touch with Mellitus Vivener, Rillienus Edstra, and Porphyria Herathinos (she appears to have fallen out with her progenitors as well as the precious sister, and moved out to Antiva. That’s rather thought-provoking, no?) Bear with me, dear, these three care about our case deeply, and hold grudges far heavier against the Venatori than any hurt that could separate you from them.

Melittus and Rillienus. At least these two still had minds of their own. Otherwise, it would have meant there were no good men left in Tevinter. And that Dorian had a suspicious preference in covert scum and cowards. About Porphyria... in-law or beyond the of law, she had always been friendlier than his former betrothed, no thanks to the peripeties between their families. It was refreshing to hear that she, at least, had left the pit.

Write to Melittus. And Rillienus. That was a good one. For a great a friend Maevaris was, she had luck with finding contacts that brought Dorian most embarrassment and regret. As if these even wanted to get in touch with him after all these years. After Father made sure he’d disappear from Vyrantium into thin air, letting Melittus fall into trouble in Dorian’s stead. After slowly getting distant with Rillienus since he was told there was no use trying.

Nearly every person from Tevinter who could have become Dorian’s friend, somehow he had to prevent it - acting up, hesitating, fearing unpopularity... and ending up alone. Not that friendship was inexpendable anyway. Dorian's damily expected enemies everywhere. Besides, the Altus social bluster belonged to the daring. He was either too daring or too timid. So, even when Dorian did nothing wrong, everyone chose their own families and their established circles over him. The few exceptions - Felix, Maevaris, Melittus, Porphyria, uncle Gilbert Thalrassian - where were the rest of them now? Mellitus never wrote, or couldn’t he, for any reason? Last time Dorian tried to get in touch with old Gilbert, the man was packing his bags before another expedition deep into the Donnarks. Another one who ran far, far away, into the world of phantastic blossoms, gliding rodents, and colorful birds.

Felix was the closest of Dorian's few friends. He stayed a bit behind, watchful of old Alexius’s apprentices, who all were no better than him except one thing: they were all talented in magic. Was Felix envious? Dorian couldn’t tell. _He_ surely had envied the Alexius family everything else. He envied the notion that Felix didn’t lack anything to thrive despite being an underdog among the Altus.

For some time, Felix seemed afraid of the thing that was Dorian’s daily bread - that something inherently better would replace him in his father’s eyes. But that never happened. Alexius elevated his son over anything else, spitting in covetous faces. The magister never obscured why he accepted apprentices. His wife and he loved Felix more their own lives, but they needed a successor in their magical endeavours, and that was one matter in which Felix couldn't please them. He didn’t attend classes with the apprentices, he learned arithmetics instead. Sometimes he'd take a peek at their exercise and spark some short-lived, flimsy glitter of light from his fingers, gazing sadly as others' wishes materialised as the panoply of colours and shapes.

Dorian appeared in their household as a mystery - inebriated and in disarray, without luggage or a copper to his name, far behind in his studies, and utterly unprepared for the Harrowing despite inevitably coming to age. His arrival was utterly illogical, considering that he had a wealthy family of his own and, apparently, a great life he somehow didn't appreciate. Alexius was wary at first, but he took delight in each goalpost conquered by Dorian, and he listened to most unorthodox ideas instead of calling it youthful daydreaming.

On their first Satinalia under the same roof, Felix would say, “I’ve always dreamed to have siblings. Now I’ll have a dozen.” It sounded like fun back then. Had it meant as much for Felix as it meant for Dorian?

He folded the letter and went over the name list. These weren't random figures he would easily shoot down from afar and scrub his hands afterwards. They were living faces, memories from Quarinus, Vyrantium and Neromenian, fellow residents of the Circles and detention schools. So much from his past would need to be discarded so that he could build a piece of life without shame. For a while, his grief was replaced by anger, and he needed to utilize it before the expected bout of intertia and hopelessness would make him completely useless. Treading water on the balcony wouldn't do any good. He needed to return to the room and use the quill.

> There are Venatori mages out there, lurking in the wilderness...

Why shouldn't the Inquisition make use of the trace? With or without manslaughter, any blow to the Venatori infrastructure was most desirable. Leliana's ravens fluttered in their cages as if they knew – as if they could feel the chill of bloodlust poured into Dorian's note.

As Dorian passed the library by, his companions were still chatting by the research tables. He turned their inquiring glares down. Definitely not in mood to explain himself. Trevelyan made those calf eyes at him again. He noticed. They all noticed something was wrong. Plunging into his favourite armchair in the library nook, Dorian unfolded the letter once more.

If only he'd gotten anything directly from House Alexius. But it must have been a terrible mess. Frankly, the house was on its deathbed as well now, with old Alexius disowned and Felix dead. So many memories, conversations, accomplishments would turn to nothing. House Alexius had felt like home. It had shown Dorian people who cherished each other without making neverending lists of conditions and footnotes. It was one of the last bastions of sanity among the Altus, as long as master Gereon and his wife Livia held it together.

Old Alexius deserved to know, but Dorian wasn't sure how his former master would have taken it. How Dorian himself would have taken that shitty role of the bearer of bad news.

The research team left the library, one by one. Amalric waited for the procession to pass and leant on a book shelf on Dorian's side. “Something happened?”

“I received news from the Imperium.”

“And?”

“The usual stuff. They kill their good people and send unconvincing villains to annoy us.”

“ _That_ wouldn't upset you though, would it?”, Trevelyan withdrew behind the bookshelf as soon as he asked the question. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry. I... had better leave you to yourself.”

It might have sounded bad, but Dorian preferred it that way. But he wouldn't be simply left to himself. The Inquisitor caught him, brooding over the newly received piece of parchment, when she was doing her daily round of errands, trotting up and down the stairs. Smoke from the cheapest candles pinched his eyes. He must have looked overally miserable. 

“Felix was the best of us. With him around, you knew things could be better”, he muttered.

“Do you think he could be an example for others?”, she asked. “He surely wouldn't like to let his death go to waste.” Ergonomics and attitudes. Exaltation of heroes. That world was growing onto her. 

“Should I spread the word? We could spawn a cult of Felix within a matter of days!” That would have been the easiest way to bring Felix _back_ from his grave to kick Dorian in the arse. Felix hated unsolicited attention. “Suppose there are worse things”, the Inquisitor sighed. Well, that was put lightly. Any sane person would have traded a peaceful, calculus-loving Felix cult for the Venatori... or anything putting the Old Gods in a good light, for that matter.

“Probably true. And you're right, his actions should not be forgotten. Thankfully, Felix wasn't the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.”

“I'm not sure if you're talking to _me_ right now.”

“You find the word  _ decent _ unsatisfactory? Fine. You've got me here”, he sighed. “I admit, if I were you, I  _ would _ get offended.” He was far too good at putting up a facade. And he'd have to endure it a little bit longer.

All in all, he could have at least slipped old Alexius a note. And so he did, turning his tail and running from the jail door without a single word. Before he'd hear the lament and start internally screaming along. This time he _really_ needed to hug a bottle, before that facade would peel away. He came to understand why the builders of Skyhold put the tavern opposite to the dungeon entrance.

"How strong is that Qunari distillate?", he asked Cabot.

"See the mercenary chief?", the dwarf nodded at the one-eyed special skirmish group commander. The grey was barely holding on in a poor wobbly chair that kept squealing under the weight of his massive thighs. Once in a while, he would swing to the sides as if he forgot the weight of his horns, and murmur something in Qunlat.

"If anyone smaller than him takes more than two rounds of that stuff, you sign a statement. I wasn't hit by a rock. I _won't_ be held accountable for any deaths in that watering hole."

"Pour me a small one."

The taste was just the first part of the shock. The thing was bitter fire come to life that twisted the guts and put the drinker to the ground at once. It was like deep mushroom absinthe spiced up with cinnamon. Just as Dorian's digestive system stopped yelling for help, the liquor kicked in, and it was horrific. For a moment, Cabot could have knocked Dorian down with a feather. Dorian soon realised that bar stools in Herald's Rest didn't have backrests.

"Clogs your pipe just right, huh?", the Qunari lifted his mug. "Evvryon's gotta unclog from time to – _hic!_ \- to time, yyyyeah?"

"No more unclogging. Don't need another funeral any time soon. Especially my own." Dorian pictured his funeral, a bunch of Inquisition people hastily igniting a pier somewhere near Skyhold's premises and strewing him around the Frostbacks as he watched from a distance, a wisp-like presence. No-one important would come along, so he'd just look up and paddle through the Breach, wherever he'd feel urged to go. Bidding the world farewell as it was deluged with the red of blood and lyrium, he'd realise why there was no ceremony: he'd pass everyone precious by in the Fade. The one who always held on to his lousy life too tight.

As the mood was settling in, Dorian made sure he was standing firm on both legs, and drew a handful of silvers out. He could swear they'd added some mild poison to that liquor. For the better. Now he had an excuse to feel absolutely horrible for a day.

"I _can_ find the door", he bowed to Cabot, and to the hardly conscious horned companion. On the way back to his chamber, the courtyard turned as gloomy as Crestwood. Clouds were littering down again, purplish and thick like fleece. Dorian fell on his bed and let his mind sail on.

He could hardly get back in touch with his friends, and their group had just shrunken painfully again. He couldn't even get a hold of himself to ask a guy out. Father was right. Dorian would waste every opportunity. In return, he was alone in every endeavour. And he'd drop dead fighting his own countrymen, to go down in history as a traitor who took part in a failed attempt to overtake the Chantry by a bunch of questionably ambitious vulgarians.

"I don't understand. Why do you seek to make yourself hurt more?", a familiar voice, still trembling from the unfamiliarity with mortal affairs, reached his ears from above. Oh just _fuck it_ , why do you need to return _now_ , Dorian moaned in his mind. Well, the answer was rather obvious. What could be better than death for a spirit worked up by pain?  


"You're only alone if you allow it. You think you need it now because you don't want your hurt to be seen. But it's only when you're seen that others can help."

"I might think about it when I don't feel spread thin in every direction. Now, would you kindly leave a man to his... ", Dorian moaned into his pillow. He couldn't spell the word. He couldn't be stricken _that_ hard. He had known, and he had prepared. F or a while, there was silence, but then the spirit carried on: "Why do you all hold on to this... sorrow? No longer was it formless, ever-changing. But you _are_ change. So why does it hurt you?"

Dorian sat up on the bed and rubbed his eyes. His head was still buzzing and whispering disappointment. This wasn't the right moment for philosophical deliberations. "We get used to each other as we live. So when we die, it takes a while to get used to loneliness. Stupid as it seems, that's the price we pay for enjoying each other's company. The man who's passed... I enjoyed his company. Profoundly."

"No tingling in the belly, no nights spent wondering: what if he doesn't want? Different. He feels less, the more he receives. Wish I could lift that boulder off his chest."

Ah, reading minds again. And he was... incisive. "Wishing. That's all I've ever done for him", Dorian muttered.

"You traveled. Learned things that couldn't be unseen. Asked the dead what the living couldn't know."

"All trifle in the face of the taint."

"You didn't leave when it would have been convenient. He was grateful."

Tears released from his burning eyes, and went cold as soon as they touched his cheeks. He was getting cold altogether, but this time it was fine. He'd rather have been left alone, but the strength to do anything about it left him. And the spirit carried on like a cranked barrel organ: "He was a part of you, as much as you were a part of him. What you were holding needs to go too."

"So, with each person I meet, I squander myself to provide everyone with a picture to care for? That explains much. In the end, there will be nothing left for _me._ "

"No, no, it's not like that. You people _grow_ when you nurture each other in your minds", the spirit insisted. Hardly ever had Dorian felt there was _more_ of him around someone else. Felix could do that. Would anyone ever repeat it?

The spirit wiggled about, holding something for himself, starting another serenade: "No. I must leave. You can't grow new crops unless you've cleared old bushes."

He swooshed and disappeared into thin air, leaving Dorian looking around the room in bewilderment. The only reminder of the alien presence in the chamber was a painted ceramic plate with a fresh sweet roll frosted with a snow white topping. Dorian cracked a sad smile and surrendered to a hazy drunken dream.

 


	24. No place like Val Royeaux, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is delegated to Val Royeaux to meet the University of Orlais representatives. But a visit in the capital of Orlais without an intrigue is a visit wasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st part of a 2-shot, as indicated. I felt like inserting a mini adventure into the static character analysis.

“There are worse things than dying, Dorian.” Such as: dying from the Blight, dying as a traitor of the country, dying figuratively by means of being obliterated from the sprawling rhizome of the Altus family trees... Had Felix tried to cheer _himself_ up with some twisted sense of humour? That didn't matter anymore. Dorian needed to keep dragging his feet, and to perish the thought that there were probably better things than living: under the threat of the Blight, as a traitor left to infamy. A nasty gut feeling told Dorian that both Felix and he were yet to score a deuce of these.

He was like that sweet roll that kept wasting away on the night table. Unchangingly alluring from a distance, though it revealed its staleness when touched. At the end of the day, mostly good for breaking jaws. Or something. That was the _most_ gracious idea he could come up with. _Eughhh_.

He'd gladly have signed up to break something, just to forget about all the mental corrosion, but the Inquisition issued an expedition to a place called Emerald Graves. The Inquisitor requested more research about the sacred sites of her people before she'd meet the Empress. Much as it was an understandable move _for her_ , the timing felt horrible for Dorian.

Nonetheless, he was waiting for something to force him out of the bastion of his bed covers, to kick him in the shins so he'd start caring about something again. They arrived... at some point. This time, both Gwenaelle and Tamsine were at his door. It dawned on him that he still hadn’t seen the Orlesian scholar’s face without heavy make-up, and that he’d likely ignore her completely, had she ever gone for a walk with her face so inappropriately _nude_. That was one way to make a few people fall off their chairs, supposedly.

Gwenaelle took an angry hen’s stance, ranting on Dorian’s poor head, hungover from the dosage of Qunari forgetfulness and all the thoughts that _didn’t_ succumb to it.

“You turn tail without a word, then they see you wobbling out of the tavern in the brightest dayl-”

Tamsine stepped up, blocking her companion out and giving her a subtle elbow nudge. “What she meant is we are _worried._ It's not a secret that this letter from Tevinter caused you great distress. We were wondering if you’d like to lift the veil of secrecy for us? Perhaps we can offer some help?”

“Or could I have one day for myself, without being fussed over?”, he scoffed. Perhaps he didn't want that resuscitating kick after all.

Tamsine snorted. “If that is your answer, we will not waste time bickering.”

Once again, he could congratulate himself on being an arse.

"I shall only let you know that the University in Val Royeaux has invited envoys from the Inquisition. We were hoping you'd consider the offer, because the rest of us didn't need to."

She had a sting, and Dorian's blunder made him helpless. So, it was either these Emerald Graves, or a place he'd already seen through Felix's eyes as they exchanged letters. The building, the paths, the quality of the canteen – he'd already known it all from description, and the experience could only add to his pain.

He could still shut himself inside the dungeon library vault. Its entrance was a slab of stone pulled sideways, with a trigger and fake pilasters. He could hang a tapestry over the doorway. No-one would ever bother to find him.

"Perhaps the book lice appreciate exposure to my shitty temper. Putting me forward as the Inquisition's exhibit at _this_ time could give us a rather bad name."

Tamsine shook her head and called retreat with a theatrical "What has gotten into him." The other enchantress, however, remained to deliver the final jab: "It's about time to get some air, or the rot starts moving from your tongue _upwards_."

He went for a walk to the gardens, so he could forget about the whole scene, only to have a messenger stumble upon him and, with a just-please-don't-kill-me look, pass the note from the Inquisitor: "You _are_ going to Val Royeaux. This is an _official_ command. A little change in surroundings will do you good." As if she knew. But that wasn't unusual. Everybody _knew_ on Dorian's behalf. He sighed and packed his things – a brunch with a few doctors from Val Royeaux couldn't be that bad, could it? With Vivienne, who had business with a few senior enchanters and Chantry dignitaries, Gwenaelle and Tamsine giving him a silent treatment, Amalric not talking to him for their own reasons, and Varric Tethras with his own investigation of red lyrium... no, it was going to be another embarrassment.

Orlesian nobility took pride in their descent from the stern, pallid Ciriane peoples with angular noses. Thankfully, the main plazas of Val Royeaux weren't inspired by any of these traits. The garish splendour of stuccoes and murals restored some liveliness to Dorian’s bedraggled bones. How much of his recent brain impairment could come from the light deprivation alone? Apparently, the Valmont family colours symbolised the divine sunshine that never left their capital: pure ultramarine on regal gold or white. The only reminder of nature’s obstinacy against the Valmonts’ will was a crumbled bridge that used to lead to the mainland itself - not theirs, by any means, as it was a ruin of Thalssian's Bridge that had connected the Imperial Highway between the North and the South.

Whatever one could say about Celene, she helped turn a Chantry-censored wastebasket into a prospering college for both mages and commoners. The admission depended on the weight of one’s pouch, not on one’s birth - a leap forward, it would have appeared. Naturally, it was fiercely criticised both by the Chantry in the South and in Tevinter, albeit for opposite reasons. It can’t have been perfect, but it was up and running. Would have been a shame to see the initiative die out with its great patron, however Dorian didn't expect the Empress's rivals to be half as concerned with an image of open-mindedness.

Alexius couldn’t wait to send Felix to the University of Orlais, uplifted by the liberal project and hoping to infuse some of his idealism in the lad. He’d said that the Imperium’s greatest flaw was its reluctance to let the youth study without making the whole course of education about the social games. A view Dorian, for one, had applauded, sick and tired of the treadmill that made his peers boringly uniform in their tunnel vision. Funny how an organization like this could flourish in Orlais, of all places.

Speaking of tunnels, the main city gate blended into a passageway of two walls with Chantry's holy statues sculpted in aisles on each side. The statues of Maferath, permanently rubbing his forehead while holding bowls and pitchers, gained notoriety of The Traitor's Stupor and Atonement Morning After – as reflected by witty remarks scrabbled under the statue plates.

About half a mile away from the Summer Bazaar stood the Collegium. Led by gentle humming of a fountain, they crossed its inconspicuous gateway. The inner courtyard was stylized like a summer garden with a lawn, small shrubs with leaves of many shades, and bird cages hanging in the corners. The upper floors were enmeshed in ribbons that cradled gently between the balconies. How many servants did they need to clean the place up and keep the grass trimmed?

“This place is amazing”, Amalric gasped. The place wasn't far from a farce, but no-one questioned Empress Celene's grand gestures.

“This place reflects the excellence of Orlesian architecture”, Tamsine chirped. “You take one step from the bustle of the city to find yourself ensnared by courtyards and back alleys like this one.”

One of the Orlesians standing on the balcony above threw their arms open and ran up to them, sweeping the staircase with long flaps of their coat. The whole bunch of Orlesians wore some sort of uniform, a long coat and black tights, which took the task of discerning them to entirely new levels of difficulty. On the other hand, it can't have been difficult to tell guests from the local scholars.

"Ah, _magnifique_! Our honourable guests from the Inquisition have arrived. Doctor Èmile Lemieux, at your service – just as the entire Department of Lyriology", the leader paid them homage in a lavish bow. The mask, that guarded the persona behind Doctor's deep, steely voice, resembled a silver-plated weasel's mouth. "Please, please, let us move somewhere more suitable."

The term _canteen_ didn't do justice to the hall where they moved on. It was a diner worthy of a noble house, with floors paved with tiny ceramic tiles, window panes made of the coloured Serault glass, a granite fireplace, and parallel tables in the middle that could hold a hundred people all together. One of the tables had already been set with fruit and crusty bagels. As they sat down and exchanged common courtesy, the maidens walked in with freshly ground coffee and silver kettles.

"We are currently working on a method to neutralize the physical effects of lyrium consumption. With proper reagents, we hope to bring relief to the retired templars, and develop safer lyrium concoctions for mages. But these aren't the only uses of our research. The new aggressive sort of lyrium has been brought to our attention. And, of course, we are doing our best to include these revelations in our work."

"So, what do you think about it?", Varric asked. "I wrote to all my acquaintances in the Merchant and Smith Castes, and they swear they have never seen anything like that."

"Then, we are just as baffled as everyone else. Especially with the intensity of its effects. The rapid tissue infestation, the abnormal invigoration of the soul on mere exposure... Never before have we been tempted to consider lyrium _so_ dangerous."

"In that case, you'll probably agree that securing a research agreement between the Inquisition, the University, and the smiths in Orzammar, is a matter of utmost importance", Vivienne said.

"Let me put it this way: the Department is ready to offer its recipes, schematics and prototypes, however... I'm sure you understand that such intensive work will create expenses", Lemieux threw his hands up.

"I was about to ask... whose generous patronage bestowed this place with such admirable presence", Vivienne nodded. "You appear to spare no expenses, be it theoretical endeavours _or_ the entourage." By the looks of it, the College _could_ use some budget cuts, as far as the decor was concerned. If an Altus from Tevinter felt overwhelmed by the abundance, one could know that they were trying _too_ hard... which was one of the chief Orlesian traits, to be fair.

"The Templar Order's generosity was... just as great as it was fickle." Ah, so it had been the Chantry – the other half of the eternal sun over Val Royeaux.

"Wicked is the grace of the mundane masters... The Inquisition is far more trustworthy a partner, though it is also somewhat more... frugal. But the lack of a few over-indulgences won't bother true scholars, am I correct?", the First Enchanter carried on.

"We will be more than happy to conduct research without disturbances."

"Then, let our diplomats discuss the details of this partnership."

"The First Court Enchanter's word is music to my ears", Lemieux stood up and bowed. "In that case, let me show you... our most recent work."

The doctor took them downstairs, through a suite of rooms and doorways, until they reached an iron gate with a more complicated security lock. Lemieux used his signet on the mechanism and pulled an ornamental knob on the side.

The next chamber was a fully equipped laboratory – all that was needed for alchemy and enchanting, granite tables, rows of charged crystals, and furnaces connected with the building's heating system. Lemieux guided them towards a wall filled with a row of safety caches, each with a double lock. These folks didn't play around with their knick-knacks.

The doctor clank with his key ring by one of the cache doors and drooped his arms, bewildered by the emptiness inside.

"No, no, something is wrong here. I'm certain it was the cache _thirty four_..."

Another few moments of fervent key jingling proved it wasn't a simple mistake. The Inquisition's emissaries started glancing at each other.

"This is not possible. I have checked everything this morning. It was in the right vault!", Lemieux's hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the keys. "Such a disgrace... Such a failure..." Many encounters in the Orlesian society were utterly fake and rehearsed, but this wasn't one of them. "The sample is gone, and... I cannot explain how", Lemieux moaned. "Oh, the shame..."

"This smells like sabotage a mile off", Varric muttered.

"That's more likely. Someone wished to make our dear Doctor look like a fool in front of us while they run with your findings", the Iron Lady said. "But we are cleverer than that. Why don't you tell us, dear, what is the thing you wanted to show us?"

Lemieux lifted the rim of his mask to wipe his face with a silken handkerchief. "A lyrium nugget immersed in liquid. The first tests were successful – the song became muffled, and the mage apprentices reported lesser perturbation on limited exposure. Oh, Maker, _who_ could steal it right from under our noses..."

"With all these masks? It's easy as pie", Varric said.

"I assume this liquid is rather valuable", Vivienne kept on questioning.

"It is... replaceable. With some effort, we'll be able to reproduce the results. But its _meaning_... the _honour_..."

"Can anyone else open these caches like you?"

"Only m-my assistant, but she's been on a leave this week. Oh, Maker, could someone hurt her?"

"I think someone should get back to the courtyard... now", Varric nodded at the corridor. "The bastard can still be in the college."

Amalric gave Dorian a gentle push, and they returned upstairs, sneaking behind a row of purple hydrangeas. On the other side of the courtyard, students were hearing a lecture by the fountain. Behind one of the flower pots, someone had thrown their coat away, one exactly like Lemieux's and other students'.

"They must have evaded our visit by the hair", Dorian whispered.

"Great, now what?", Trevelyan asked.

"Do you happen to know anyone friendly with a kennel? If we hurried up, the hounds could follow the agent's scent."

"We're in the centre of Val Royeaux. You can buy a pet nug at best."

"Nugs do have a sense of smell, no?"

"I don't think they're good at following orders, though."

"Let's leave this and wait for a while. That saboteur would have to be stupid to simply leave it like that."

"I hope you're right."

They returned to their station behind the hydrangeas. The time passed, the lecture ended. Then, gentle chiming echoed across the whole building. Within moments, all the halls in every floor opened, and students started pouring out towards the dining room. The noise, that went through the courtyard in that short while, gave Dorian a headache.

"Such a distraction might be our chance", Amalric whispered. Dorian wasn't sure if Trevelyan's breath over his shoulder felt comfortable.

At last, the figure appeared (a _masked_ figure, of course) - pottering about by the fountain, looking round in haste, searching for something under the shrubs. The crowd faithfully moving in one direction didn't pay attention. Finally, when there didn't seem to be anyone left in the classrooms above, the suspect picked the coat up and moved towards the gateway.

"It's them and the two of us now", Dorian sighed.

"Three. Actually four, including Bianca", Varric spoke up behind their backs.

"Oh, marvelous. Do you think you could pin our suspect down with a bolt or something?"

"If I had a vantage point", the dwarf shrugged. "Otherwise, there might be a few casualties from this distance."

"Stretch a leg then, or we lose the trail", Dorian sighed, lurking behind the college gate. The culprit was slowly moving away towards the docks. "And don't give me _that_ look, dwarf."

The suspect took the lesser streets around the Summer Bazaar, further from the renowned places of entertainment, but just as sunny and vibrant. Dorian promised himself to return there later, when he'd have time to savour the view.

"You might have noticed my legs are quite short by nature _",_ Varric breathed loud, trudging on their tail. "At any rate, can't top a human in a hurry... let alone a pissed off Tevinter!"

"Oh, we're playing the pun game now. How jolly", Dorian scoffed. "Amalric, could you be so kind and run ahead... you follow the agent, we follow you. We'll be a nice following procession. Just don't try anything rash."

It turned out there were more upsetting things about Val Royeaux. A corner shop two cross-streets from the main city market was advertised with a signboard as bright and gaudy as pure plaidweave: _FABIEN R. PONCHARD DE LIEUX. Goldsmith and Lapidary Arts with a Grit_.

 _Grit_ was what Dorian's teeth had nearly done upon the discovery. At the worst possible hour, he stumbled upon the man whom he'd sold his birthright, the unique piece of jewellery passed on from father to... son. To heir. Whom he wasn't since Father made Dorian's departure look like eviction. What Dorian was was a desperate loser. Without the birthright, he didn't lawfully have a family. He was hardly even Tevinter. If anyone found out what he'd done... they'd surely use it against him. Let the family know. Slander the Inquisition for taking such witless failures in. Who knows what the Inquisition would have done with him then. No, he couldn't let it go on like that anymore. He couldn't be a source of trouble this time. If there was only a way to retrieve the amulet without making a fuss about it...

The culprit took their turn straight to the docks, and so did the searching party.

"I was wondering, Varric... you're in the Merchant's Guild?", Dorian chatted the dwarf up as they stopped by one of the _Pomme Vie et Morte_ trees, the apples that tasted more and more of the gallows as one approached it. "How well do you know the market here in Val Royeaux?"

Varric tutted. "It depends what you're looking for, or what you want to avoid. Victuals, lyrium, weapons..."

"Let us say there's a merchant... who owes me a considerable sum of money... and that my allegiance with the Inquisition provides me with some persuasive means I haven't had before."

Varric threw his hands up. "See, I don't share as much information as I used to. Cassandra has... appropriated my tongue, if you get the meaning. I'm sure you understand."

"Would your hands be any less tied, had they a chance to pass some coin?", Dorian pouted.

"The Seeker isn't always looking, you know. The tongue can slip here and there. But I need a good incentive."

"I probably shouldn't have asked. _Pish_ ", Dorian snapped. "Start talking to a dwarf, they'll squeeze a transaction out of you."

"You've raised the issue, Sparkler. I've picked it up like a businessman."

"And I am not that desperate, thank you."

Amalric waved at them, pointing at a narrow niche between buildings that ran parallel to the docks. From there, they could see their suspect stop and potter about again. Dorian looked back a few times, checking if the dwarf managed to fit in with the crossbow on his back. Luckily, they managed to nest in without making too much fuss. The acoustics of that nook was rather unique. Sounds of the street hassle receded, but they could hear everything from the nearby balconies and from the docks. Washer women above them were complaining at flour prices. Someone was practicing on harpsichord. The awaited conversation echoed between the tenement houses as well.

"The disguise worked? ... Good. They won't fool us with this one. Go back to the College, I'll take this to the ...-ant."

They could overhear the conversation, but they couldn't follow the other person without compromising themselves. Last but not least, they could keep following the cerulean jacket of the sneaky faux apprentice.

" _Now_ is the time to confront our sweetheart", Dorian said. The Inquisition members walked out of their hiding place. The back alley echoes and voices gave in to the seagulls screeching and the Waking Sea hissing. The sea was acting up as usually. Even reinforced with dwarven mortar, the riverside showed tiny cracks. Restless waters lifted the odour of dead fish and kelp.

"That smell..." Amalric started sniffing around. Indeed. that smell. "Like the air after the storm. It's lyrium."

It was the only nug nose Dorian needed, apparently. "A templar?"

"Yeah. One who can still afford to get high", Varric gritted his teeth. "Viv won't be pleased."

They sat on the saboteur's tail on their way back – and _of course_ the agent was _not_ heading to the Collegium. The Inquisition had to take the matters into their own hands. Dorian was half-hoping Ponchard de Lieux would _happen_ to see the Tevinter mess up a few faces right next to his shop, and remember it when Dorian would come to retrieve the birthright. But these were just dreams...

“What do you propose now, Prince of Kirkwall’s Lowtown?”, he asked the dwarf.

"We catch that mole and give the reins to Vivienne. I haven't watched a good drama in a while."

 


	25. No Place Like Val Royeaux, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Varric pursue the agent and hand him over to the authorities. Waiting for revelations, Amalric uses his opportunity to have A Serious Talk with Dorian.

It dawned upon him: they were in the middle of the Game, and their moves demanded some strategic thinking. Preventing the enemy from getting the formula was one problem. The other problems came from Amalric Trevelyan, most of all - the ambitions he'd confided to Dorian. That, and whatever had been poorly versed as a request for some distance. There _was_ something thing Dorian could do to show that he, _sort_ _of_ , cared, and that he didn't hold a grudge against Amalric.

"Listen up. If you go back there and report to Lemieux in front of Enchanter Vivienne, you'll gain in her eyes. If you dream of _any_ position decided by the Orlesians, you must start playing the Grand Game."

"What about you?", Trevelyan asked.

"We'll follow the guy and use some methods that _shouldn't_ be discussed in front of the Enchanter", Varric nodded.

"Aren't _you_ in the Game as well?"

"Do we look like the big players? We're here merely to scrape the bottom of the barrel after the mighty ones have stuffed their bellies", Varric replied with that simper of his which usually indicated gross understatements and other suspicious figures of speech. Dorian bit his tongue before he'd say something too sappy or something too selfish. Perhaps there was nothing he could gain for _himself_ , but Trevelyan's achievement wasn't entirely beyond his concern. Nor was his favour. At the end of the day, the Game itself reminded Dorian of home too much. Sadistically amusing when watched from a distance, it would inevitably come to kick him in the head as soon as he'd get involved. Even worse, he could stumble upon his distant relatives. "Let's just go before we lose the agent for good", he hurried the dwarf.

And so, they arrived to a dive. They'd _always_ end up in a dive, further from the high streets' grandiosity and the landmarks swarming with guards. Admittedly, it still wasn't as bad as the majority of greater cities in Thedas. The City Guard must have allowed all its scum and villainy to flourish right by the alienage, by the thick wall that spared the nobility the sight of their real festering concerns. The change in status was recognizable by the lack of masks. Here, they would be something arrogant, a most uncalled-for display of power. Which meant they'd learn the agent's face, at least... The saboteur took the mask off and tousled short brown hair before entering the tavern, but didn't bother removing their disguise any further. Dorian and Varric were lucky.

The dwarf walked up to the suspect from behind and patted them on the shoulder: "University of Orlais Debt Collection Department sends its regards. It appears that you've been rather behind with your tuition, buddy." To lie plump like this, starting a faux conversation out of one's arse _was_ some sort of talent, Dorian had to give that to the dwarf. The suspect turned about, showing his regular Orlesian face with light blue eyes and a thin, juvenile stubble.

"I... d-do not understand?, the lad stuttered.

"You're wearing College attire, so you're a student. You put your uniform on, then go to classes, pass exams, and make your patrons happy. For all these joys, you pay tuition. How hard is that to understand?"

"It must be some sort of mistake! This... is just regular clothing. You can dress yourself like this anywhere in Val Royeaux", he put on a haughty grin of a person who had no foggiest idea how idiotic he looked lying... unlike Tethras. Tethras was as cool as jellied mackerel.

Dorian had never expected to make use of Felix's unapologetic excitement with every detail of his college life, from the textbooks to the shape of his robe's collar. But he had heard enough to know that the University of Orlais did grant its students some guise of prestige – be it a cloak with one's name behind the collar. "Does _any_ coat from Val Royeaux have the University's crest embroidered under the lapel?", he ran his fingers along the thick woolcloth and laid a lapel back, showing the bright yellow embroidery underneath.

Varric crossed his arms with an I-told-you grin. "Either you're slacking off during the afternoon lectures, or you aren't a student at all, which means that this coat was stolen. And that means other, _more_ valuable things might have been stolen from the College while you were roaming around wearing this. You must admit, both options are rather nasty", the dwarf tutted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about! And I'm definitely _not_ giving you any money, you... you con artists! Get off my back!"

"Come on, just admit you botched the job. You're not even trying to make up any further excuses. And I'm afraid _that_ gives me the right to apply some... enforcement proceedings", Varric cracked with his knuckles.

The culprit bestirred, nearly knocking the serving girl down on his way to the exit. He was fast and agile enough to balance between the tables and guests gasping in shock – until, right behind the tavern door, a low, miserable twang ended his escape. They reached the agent lying on the cobblestone, under the tall boot of another man: a bard, motley like a peacock's wing, who held a lute that looked like it had been somewhat damaged even _before_ it got attuned to the culprit's back.

"A man who has nothing to hide doesn't need to run. Besides, if _I_ ever got the privilege of wearing the University crest... I would have _revered_ it. This is not right, and _you_ look like a liar", the bard held a little monologue, nudging the agent's shoulder with the tip of his boot.

"Looks like the guy got... pitched", Varric chuckled.

"A truly smashing performance", Dorian said.

"The pleasure is all mine!", the bard replied, bowing until the nose of his mask touched his knee. "Some gigs require a... stronger finish. If only – ah...", the man moaned as he noticed broken strings and a long crack on his lute's body. "If only the higher forms of art weren't so costly to perform."

"And you are..."

"Zither! ZITHER! The rising star on the Cumberland scene. Perhaps you have heard of my enchanted resonance? No? Alas, the _avant garde_ cannot count on the taste of the masses. Nor on their purse. So... since this gentleman has apparently wronged your party, perhaps you can do something to... you know... reimburse my loss?... A humble finder's reward would be in order."

"We'll think about it. For now, our freshman has much explaining to do in front of his tutor. Hey! Don't pretend unconscious now, I know _all_ of these tricks", Varric called to the suspect. The man grunted and slowly picked himself up from the ground, brushing the dust off his black tights.

"Was it worth it, really?", Dorian clicked his tongue. "What is happening to the Orlesian youth? All you want to do nowadays is twiddle your thumbs and get stewed with _aquae lucidius_."

"I still don't know why I am being _assaulted_!", the saboteur shouted.

"You'll explain yourself to Doctor Lemieux who's the one at loss. Now, move along."

"I have never heard the name in my lifetime!"

"Ah. And you got that coat on a discount second hand stall by the Cornflower Canal?", Varric sneered.

"It happens that such uniforms are tailored for each scholar individually, with the owner's name - ah, yes. Here it is, in black and white: Janette Rouxil. Could that be you, by any chance?"

"From now on, I refuse to speak to any of _you_ thugs."

"That's even better. I have little patience for amateurism", Varric drawled. "I bet Lemieux can brew some truth serum with his eyes closed."

"Forget the truth serum – I heard that Vivienne freezes her enemies solid, from neck to toe, and leaves them like that until they're dehydrated. The cruel irony...", Dorian joined in. "By the way, isn't trespassing in somebody else's mask heavily frowned upon here in Orlais?"

"Damn right. The mask is just as important as the house crest. Which means, ironically, that you _don't_ masquerade as someone you are not. Otherwise, the whole disgraced family has a right to demand satisfaction."

"I'm dying to know how deeply _dissatisfied_ this Janette's family will be, then."

When they got back to the College, it was all occupied by the City Guard in funny helmets that, _shockingly_ , had masks instead of visors.

"Looks like our work is over until they squeeze something useful out of the guy", the dwarf nodded. "Go check on your golden boy, Sparkler."

" _My golden boy_?", Dorian pouted in fake offense because, admittedly, the remark was somewhat flattering. One could never tell whether Tethras was mocking someone or winking at them. Nonetheless, with a somewhat smug grimace on his face, Dorian walked away and indeed checked out on the rest of his team. They weren't half as amused.

"I have asked Lemieux in detail", Tamsine said, "and it appears that they were looking for voluntary test subjects for the next stages of research. Scholar Rouxil was running an inquiry in the Divine Innocente Residential Home. A home for retired templars."

"... And Amalric sensed processed lyrium where the sample was passed on", Dorian rubbed his chin. "The person who was at the site must be taking from the regular supply."

"The Innocente residents receive small rations of lyrium. Someone either despises the idea of relieving the withdrawal, or wants the discovery for themselves. I don't know which option is more disturbing", the Orlesian enchanter sighed.

"Especially that the Templar Order has sworn itself to our enemy", Dorian nodded. "That these templars laid down their weapons and remained on the Chantry's silver doesn't need to stop them from supporting Cullen's old friend. This _is_ our business more than by coincidence."

"I wonder what the Chantry itself would have to say about it", Trevelyan asked.

"A good question. They've had a bone to pick with the University for a long time. Allowing mages alongside with laymen, General Shartan with ears, their attempts at restoration of the Dissonant Verses...", Dorian listed.

"Enough that they'd deny knowing anything about the inquiry in the residential home. They could accuse the University of preying on the vulnerable", Tamsine said. "Which means that the matter would best be resolved through the diplomats, or the Inquisition finds itself in the crossfire if it accepts Lemieux's offer too eagerly."

"... And this, my dears, is why we don't get to fix things. Everything needs to go through the diplomats, or someone at the top will cut down the funds", Dorian snorted.

"Let's have a dinner", Amalric groaned. "We don't need an envoy for that, do we?"

After a while of wandering along the high streets, they accepted the bitter truth that they could only afford the workers' chicken butter soup with a slice of bread. Naturally, it was the worker's soup in name only – perfected with Anderfels earthnuts and a pinch of ginger, which were among the most unlikely ingredients in an average Orlesian kitchen. Amalric had his moment of bliss, savouring every bit of the taste, smell, and view from the restaurant's balcony, as if he'd been visiting the premises of the Orlesian splendour for the first time in his life. Perhaps the journeys with the Inquisition _were_ his first time outside the Free Marches? For an old rolling stone like Dorian, it felt somewhat sad to think about.

"Say whatever you want about the Orlesians, but they do know how to make the life feel like one great feast. If only it weren't all for the show", Dorian chimed, though his stomach wasn't quite inclined towards feasting. They ate in silence for a while, and the lack of ideas to spark the conversation started making him feel uneasy. A heavy cloud had been hanging above them, and only they could lift it – pointing that out in the middle of a dinner would have been simply crude. Even though, trying to find a neutral topic to keep the afternoon civil, Dorian only found himself banging against the same trivial dilemmas and racking his brains for answers: what was is Trevelyan _didn't_ want? Physicality? Then why had he played along? Had Dorian been too intimidating? Too hasty? Did Trevelyan change his mind? Why would he? Why would _anyone_ have second thoughts about Dorian, if not for the better? _W_ _hat_ did the lad want from him, not having stayed for the night? Silly courtship? A declaration of exclusivity? A _relationship_? Or did the lad think they had already been in a relationship... of some sorts? If yes, when had it begun, and how had Dorian missed it? How was he supposed to recognise it in the first place? How could he undo it without showing what a greenhorn he was? In other words, _venhedis fastaecula_. He should have known better. Both of them should have known better. Now, there was a gurgut in the room and too many _feelings_ to hurt.

"... Don't you like it?", Amalric fixed him with _that_ concerned gaze. Dorian was only halfway through his plate while the other lad had already finished.

"Pardon my clumsiness. There's been... a lot on my mind lately."

Amalric waited for him to finish in silence that kept swelling ominously, like during these magisterial feasts thrown between the rival houses, where _someone_ was expected to be poisoned, but nobody knew the victim's identity for sure. Dorian wasn't cynical enough to expect poison in the imported Antivan wine, alas -

“Dorian, I think it's time to talk.”

Dorian sighed and put his cup away. “So, I've _been_ ambushed after all, haven't I? Fine. Let's get this over with. If you were disappointed, for whatever reason, but didn’t want to cause me offense, we can just blame all the blunders on the wine and move on.”

“Disappointed? No. You were sweeping – yes, but far from disappointing."

“I'm not sure where you're going with this, and the tension is becoming a bit tedious.”

“There isn't much to tell... I shouldn't have reacted like this. I'm sorry."

Dorian gulped a sip of wine, trying to ease the dryness in his throat. He had a consistent set of suspicions, the reasons that had made him abandoned in the past. "It's absolutely fine to be curious, just as it's absolutely fine to back away when you've a need. A handsome Tevinter is an eyecandy, sure, until you realise how bad he makes you look like. Then, you remember how much you've got to lose. I'm not even _that_ disappointed, frankly. I've noticed how deeply you Circle folks care about... corruptibility of the spirit", he dwelled on the final words, as if it could make the implied accusation any milder.

"Wait... you think I've chickened out because I thought you'd _corrupt_ me?"

"Isn't it how it goes?" He stung - he stung himself more than Amalric, probably, and he hated every bit of it.

"N-not really... Not that I'd find fault in _you",_ Amalric kneaded his knuckles under the table. "It's so stupid, actually. My own mind tricked me into... believing in something I thought I'd left in the past. When you live in the Circles, senior enchanters know everyone. They can tell when two people fall for each other, become more than friends. They could transfer you overnight, or send through the Aeonar if they deemed the desire too strong. They'd say it's pure arrogance, dreaming of a life that wasn't meant for us. A mage soul is dangerous, so we cannot be happy with ourselves. We must avoid unnecessary excitements that would lead us astray. That's what they'd say. After I left, I thought I'd be fine. But it was back in my mind as soon as I realised where we were going."

If Dorian had been short of words before, now they left him completely. Amalric went on: "For you, it must sound like the Southern mob's folly. But such things stay with you when you hear them too often."

"No", Dorian blurted out. "Of all the people in Skyhold, you'd be the last one I'd suspect of not making sense."

Trevelyan replied with a weak smile. "I was hoping you'd understand."

"Curious how the people who are most concerned with the dangers of temptation seem to bring it about with their moralizing gibberish."

Amalric stretched his arm out across the table and laid his hand still in the middle. Dorian looked around gently, hesitant to take the invitation at first. But he reminded himself that there were no agents to sit on his tail, that neither Orlesians nor the Inquisition's leaders would be concerned in the slightest. He reached out as well and let their hands meet.

"There was a time I believed that I had to make similar choices. That I'd lose the ones I admired if I told them how I feel. How would pretending something I wasn't make me a better, stronger man – I still don't know. And I'd hate to see anyone else suffer the lie... Especially you", he said, talking to the sodding _hands_ , because anything more would have been too much to bear in public, Orlesians' lack of interest notwithstanding.

Amalric backed away. "For all it's worth, they might be right and I might be broken. What would you want with someone like that?"

The armature of calmness cracked. "What would I want?", Dorian bridled. "To _be myself_ , nothing less! Look at me: the becharming pillar of trust and golden advice! Honestly, what else would you need?"

Amalric's response was a single heavy sigh. It let Dorian know he'd screwed up again. "Remember how I mentioned something about _seriousness_?", the lad asked.

The seriousness. Indeed. Did they absolutely need to scavenge for each other's issues? Was that the whole mystery of the true, not-half-arsed commitment? Dorian refused to accept _that._ All he'd got from opening up was just this – he reached that strange point where he was unable to speak from the heart anymore, where his words showed the face he'd rather have kept for different occasions. He'd preferred to play a fool for a little longer rather than be dissected so mercilessly by anyone else... at least until he'd make _sure_ that the price would satisfy his deepest longings. And there was still a long way to this certainty. "Hasn't there been enough sappy seriousness yet? Couldn't we call it a day?", he dodged.

"That... would be best. I've already upset you enough", Trevelyan rose from the table with a nondescript grimace. When they were marching back to the Collegium, Dorian couldn't get rid of the funny feeling in his hand – as if the warmth of their touch kept lingering. He was such a desperate, sorry mess.

The team soon called a meeting in Lemieux's office. The agent admitted to be a former templar archer in training who managed to desert in the chaos of Lord Seeker's mutiny, and stayed close to an easy source of lyrium in exchange for shady favours. When the prescribed doses of lyrium weren't enough for some of the retired templars, he'd play lyrium laundering with a group of smugglers. It appeared that the lad overestimated his esteem in the underworld, and he soon needed to make the templars pay more. Hence, he convinced a few that Lemieux's experiment would make their lyrium dementia even worse. "This shit reminds me of home. And I'm not proud of it", Varric hissed when the guards walked the agent away to the city dungeons.

The City Guard was on their feet to interrogate the templars and to search for assistant Rouxil. It was still uncertain how the saboteurs reached her, or how they prepared the action. Vivienne kept tapping her heel and clicking her lips to make her irritation apparent as she dictated a letter to the Revered Mother of Val Royeaux. She _politely_ requested Mother's immediate attention to the scandal – as politely as a concealed chain of subtle insults could be: the Mother had already seen reason and accepted the survivor of the Conclave as the Herold of Andraste; she had also agreed to withdraw from unsavoury commentaries towards the University, blah, blah, blah. Lemieux listened in suspense, probably with boringly mundane concerns in his mind: would the results of his work be safe? Would the incident shut him out of his career? In the entire bunch, the Doctor was one person Dorian could sympathise with.

It dawned upon him that Amalric must have been terribly discouraged by this apparent inevitability of dirty intrigue. That, and Dorian's big mouth which, _traditionally_ , had to show _exactly_ when he was trying to be tender. At least Dorian was less and less surprised each time his efforts turned out futile. As soon as Vivienne finished venting, a raven took the copy of her letter to Josephine with an announcement of their return to Skyhold - once again, without results, leaving even more problems to untangle.


	26. The dreaded word was Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian receives a suspicious letter... through the Inquisitor, who got it through Mother Giselle, as it seems. It brings a meeting that was most _uncalled for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode contains trigger warnings for components of emotional abuse: victim invalidation, denial of responsibility, crossing personal boundaries, breaking voluntary no-contact state, mentions of gaslighting, possible employment of flying monkeys/ manipulation of intercessors.

The expedition to the Emerald Graves raised new rumours in Skyhold: after the deed, the forces could disclose that they succeeded interjecting caravans of red lyrium for the red templars. The intelligence had also stumbled upon the traces of red lyrium mining sites all across the Dales. Cullen and Leliana turned their eyes towards a tiny mining village of Sahrnia in the Emprise du Lion region, which was reportedly gradually turning red. A new grand operation was in prospect, one that could convince the Inquisition to employ its allies from the University of Orlais, and give Dorian some healthy anger outlet.

But when the Inquisitor approached Dorian in person, squeezing a slightly mangled envelope in her hand, he sensed that his discomfort would prevail, and _not_ with a healthy resolution. The envelope lacked a seal or the sender's initials, anything to identify them. Which was all slightly suspicious, considering Lavellan's insistence that the letter concerned Dorian and _him_ only.

"I'm not sure I understand what this letter means, so I thought I'd just show it to you", she said. And praise the woman's wisdom – in that moment, and later on – that she did. As soon as Dorian recognised the handwriting, he sensed deception reeking from the parchment into his every single bone.

> _Your Reverence,_

_...Reverence_? Had something changed among the Inquisitor's titles?

> _I understand that you feel inadequate to the task of bringing Dorian to a secret meeting. Even in the asking, I find it difficult to believe myself. Considering my son has rebuffed all contact, this is the only way._

_He found it difficult to believe himself_. Well, of course. Hadn't he still realised why Dorian had rejected him? Had he forgotten that Dorian _wasn't his son anymore,_ to recall the magister's own words? That he'd gotten rid of his greatest headache?

> _I know him; he would be too proud to come if he knew - even just to talk. That is all we wish to do. The thought of Dorian in the south, placing himself in the path of such danger, alarms us more than I can express._

_Too proud_ to make up. Because rotting in Father's golden cage, mind-controlled to obey every single order, to begin with making baby heirs with Livia Herathinos, would have put an end to all the dangers and reckless choices Dorian was inclined to make by himself. Then, Father _wouldn't_ have worried.

> _If this somehow succeeds, we have a family retainer at the Vandral Hills watching for Dorian's arrival. He will bring the boy to us, somewhere private. If Dorian utterly refuses to go with him, it ends there… and there is nothing we can do. We are at our wit's end._

> _Graciously yours,_

> _Magister Halward of House Pavus_

" _I know my son_... What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble! This is so typical!", Dorian called. Father _only_ knew about him what he had phantasised. Needless to say, he got disappointed in his son too many times. "I'm willing to bet this _retainer_ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter."

"You think he'd actually do that?"

"No... although... I wouldn't put it past him." Dorian found himself swaying between the memory of what his family _had_ done to him that one time when Father finally popped a vein, and the lingering doubt: what if they realised their mistake, what if they were truly reaching out? They wouldn't have done anything stupid right under the Inquisitor's nose, right? Then why did Father require the whole thing to be passed on behind Dorian's back? Had the last remains of bravery left him? After all the suspicions of undue behaviour gathered against Dorian, _he_ was the one intimidated at the prospect of meeting face to face? Or was he simply afraid that the Inquisition would have discovered his dirty secret?

"For real?", the Inquisitor kept asking.

"Yes, for real. We're a sickeningly sweet, loving bunch, my family and I."

He felt like making it all end right there, ignoring the whole affair, letting Father know that he was obedient to that _one_ request, that he'd rather have remained lost to the family's memory. But, for all he knew, Father's concern had never been fake. Perhaps it chose the means of all-encompassing control and endless nagging, but it _was_ concern nevertheless. The least Dorian could do was meet Father's pawn and leave him a message.

"Fine. Let's go. Let's meet this "family retainer". If it's a trap, we escape and kill everyone. You're good at that, no? If it's not, I send the man back to my family with the message that he can stick his alarm _in his wit's end_ . What intrigues me more, to whom was this letter addressed? Whom did my father ask to help arrange this ruse? Because it doesn't look like a letter to _you_ ", Dorian wiggled the folded letter in the air.

"It arrived to me through Mother Giselle. She looked just as surprised by the request as I was."

"Giselle? Of all the people in Skyhold, _Giselle_ ?", Dorian snorted. "That jabbering hag probably couldn't wait to share all her devout suspicions about my endeavours. But... _how_ have they reached her? And why would she come to you?"

"To be fair, she was quite vague about her contacts with your family. She said she's reluctant to step up because the two of you don't like each other."

"And _that_ is why the whole thing should be kept from me? Because I wouldn't talk to _either_ of them if I've found out? Birds of feather!"

"Is there bad blood between you and your family?", the Inquisitor asked.

"Ah. We've never talked about my family before. They're not happy with my choices, you see, nor I theirs", he said.

"What choices? Leaving Tevinter?"

"That... _too",_ he bit his tongue. The Inquisitor can't have cared to hear any of it. Using her as a shoulder to cry on... no. That would have been too reckless.

"So, there's more?"

"I could write an autobiography with full disclosure. Why haven't I done it yet? I could give a signed copy to Giselle. With a personal dedication: Keep poking your nose into others' affairs, you'll find it pinched in the door one day. No matter. For now, I just wonder how much my father paid this man to wait around, just in case I showed."

"Do you _really_ want to make that trip, though?"

"If it's a trap – we should spring it, else they'll find another way. One less obvious. And if it's not? Well, I'll admit to a little morbid curiosity." It was the kind of curiosity that made you stick a finger in your arse, expecting a goldmine. Truth be told, _anything_ devised by Dorian's family _and_ delivered behind such a veil of secrecy must have served bringing him back home, in more or less mischievous ways. Clearly, someone was getting ants in his pants from not knowing Dorian's whereabouts.

But what was he supposed to do? At least, he had to let his family know that he wouldn't allow such occurrences to stand – that he would not fall for their playing the worry card.

"Where are these Vandral Hills?"

"They must mean the hills between Old Redcliffe and the farmlands. There used to be some buildings before the Blight, but now... Giselle said the retainer would be waiting in the Redcliffe tavern. That's the closest they could get."

"A knowledgeable woman, isn't she? I will settle this with _her_ later. Now, let us go to Redcliffe and knock some heads together."

"People from the procurement department are going there for resupplies. We can get a lift on their wagons."

And so, in four or five days Dorian arrived in Redcliffe, prepared to flip the bird at the retainer and order a round of beers on the old man's tab. Except that The Gull and The Lantern was dead empty, even though the candles were lit, and tables laid ready for service. There wasn't a single worker pottering about, no rumour from the kitchens and the supply rooms. Every bone in his body screamed danger and deception. "Uh-oh. Nobody's here. This... doesn't bode well."

"If this really is an ambush, I let Sister Leliana herself get to the heart of this", Lavellan said under her breath.

Then, something by the staircase to the guest rooms stirred. A figure descended down the stairs: bleached snakeskin slippers, a crimson robe with black and golden stripes, matching gloves, a tabard all covered with the badge – two serpents of the Tevinter Imperium holding a coat of arms, a golden sun on the red background...

"Dorian..."

 _Fuck_. That sleazy, outwardly indifferent voice.

"Father", Dorian drawled. _He_ must have been truly desperate to go to such great lengths, to come to the South himself and present Dorian with a _fait accompli_. "The whole story about the family retainer was just... what? A smoke screen?" What was Father trying to accomplish there? Sympathy for the trouble he took voluntarily and unasked?

"So... you were told", Father said, evidently disappointed. _Of cours_ e Dorian had been told. The Inquisitor wasn't just another backstabbing liar who would supply the entourage of Father's lapdogs, gossiping geese, and eavesdropping sewer rats. What a disappointment she must have caused, failing to be measured with the magister's own yard-stick. Of course, he'd have preferred Mother Giselle to drag Dorian there. She would have nodded in assent to the tear-jerking story about the worried father who crossed the Waking Sea to find out why his son joined the Inquisition without explaining himself beforehand. Never mind that Dorian had cut all the ties for reasons he would have never disclosed to a regular Southern Chantry clerk. Or maybe he should have? What would make Giselle more shocked and scandalised, Dorian's admission to the craft of necromancy, and his alleged influence on the Inquisitor since their trip to the future, or Father's attempt to tie Dorian to his family duties using the dreaded blood magic? That was a stumper. Unfortunately, knowing Giselle's repute, she would have told half of the Inquisition about it, trying to wrap the news around her head. And Dorian did not need _everyone_ at Skyhold to know.

"I apologise for the deception, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to be involved", Father spun that phlegmatic, hypnotizing chant of his which only indicated that, in reality, he was shitting himself _not_ to trip on a single word, not to give _a bad impression_ . Because impressions were _all_ he was, in the end.

"Why involve anyone, for that matter? Why didn't you visit Dorian in Skyhold, or write him a letter directly?", the Inquisitor asked. "Why send one letter through _three_ ravens?" Why? Because Father knew very well that Dorian would _never_ have reached out for him again, come hell or high water. Not after what Father had nearly done with a sense of self-righteousness. But perhaps there were more reasons?

"A fair question, Inquisitor. Magister Pavus couldn't come to Skyhold and be seen with the dreaded _you_ . _What would people think_ ?", Dorian oozed the bile – that sickly hiccup reminding him of his own helplessness every time he only had his own word against Father's. With Lavellan by his back, for once _he_ felt in power. For once, he knew that he wouldn't be ignored or dismissed as the loony. That someone at least would dare to ask the valid questions. "What is this exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?"

"Ahh... this is how it has always been", Father replied to the Inquisitor, as if Dorian weren't there at all, that impudent... He'd figured that one out as soon as his circular excuses with the greater good and the _mores_ stopped working – Dorian kept standing his ground, Father would just ignore it and proceed as he had planned. Just to make it clear whose voice had _never_ really mattered.

"I don't understand. Why are you talking to me now?", Lavellan started losing her patience. "Weren't I supposed to remain uninvolved? You went through all of this to get here, to get Dorian here – talk to _him_."

The lower half of Father's mouth puckered into a pouting grimace - now, he'd shat himself undoubtedly.

"Yes, Father. Talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger."

"Dorian, there's no need to -"

Ah, but _when_ was there a need to listen from beginning to end? Perhaps the Inquisitor deserved to hear it all, if Father was so loathe to listen? That would have been a show: a Dalish elf reacting to a magister's holy indignation. At worst, Dorian would have made sure they wouldn't become good friends. "I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves."

"... And?", she raised her eyebrows. "Is that all? Because _that_ isn't very exciting to know, nor is it exactly news."

"No, it isn't. Why should it be? Why should anyone care? I have no idea", Dorian snorted.

"This display is uncalled for", Father gurgled, nearly choking on the lump stuck in his throat. He was angry. Like a ruffled turkey, flushing and ready to peck at the passers-by's ankles.

"No, it _is_ called for. You called for it by luring me here." As expected, Father could _not_ take responsibility for a simple mistake, let alone for a fuckup like this. Enough that someone questioned his sophisticated line of assumptions and excuses, suddenly _none_ of it was his idea. No wonder he survived that long in the Magisterium – accountability wasn't their greatest virtue altogether.

"This is _not_ what I wanted", Father drawled. _Shock and shame_. Had words been like the wind, Father would have been whisked away back to Minrathous itself by the mere stench of his abnegation from every single time he had to face an inconvenient truth.

"I'm never what you wanted, Father. Or had you forgotten?" Magister Halward let his ears down like a beaten dog. Take it. Take it and remember well – the taste of humiliation. Of what Dorian's youth had been turned into. The lesson that the world didn't always bow to the magister's whim.

"So... Is it a big concern in Tevinter?", Lavellan asked.

"Only if you're trying to live up to an impossible standard. Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader. It means every perceived flaw – every aberration – is deviant and shameful. It must be hidden."

"And _you'd_ better remain hidden?", The Inquisitor asked Dorian. Rhetorically. She pondered something for a while, then spoke to Father: "You can't trim a good arrow's fletching and expect it to fly. I've heard enough to see that this isn't going anywhere."

"I agree. Let's go. There's nothing more to be gained here."

"Dorian, please. If you'll only listen to me..."

No. He'd spent most of his life patiently listening, because that was expected of him. Because _a_ father had been deemed a sanctified oracle of life wisdom who always knew best. Magister Halward had used that appearance _ad nauseam_. He could use it to call Dorian out all the time – _You see, the boy never listens, and see where it gets him. I don't know what to do anymore._ What Father was asking for now, though, was a thunderstorm.

"Why? So you can spout more convenient lies?", Dorian stepped up and looked Father right in the eye. _He_ could use the same trick for once. He could pretend he was talking to someone else too, in that fake sense of distinguished superiority. "He taught me to hate blood magic. _The resort of the weak mind_ . Those are _his_ words. But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life? You tried to... change me!"

"I only wanted what was best for you..."

"You wanted the best for _you_! You and your fucking legacy, anything for that!"

Dorian leant against the nearest table and stared at it for a moment, to give the vagueness of his mind some focus. Even now, Father preferred his excuses, and the stupid arrogance that never allowed him to be in the wrong. Dorian couldn't tell how much more of this he would have endured, and they hadn't ever reached the point of the conversation. If there had _ever_ been a point, other than dragging Dorian around and leaving him upset.

The Inquisitor nodded at him. "I think it's time we left."

"I agree", Dorian replied. Father had a dozen chances to get straight to the point, had he truly wanted to, and he'd squandered them all on ducking what was unpleasant for his ears.

"Are you all right? Would you like to talk?", Lavellan asked as soon as she closed the tavern door.

"No... not really. Let's just... go as far as our feet will carry us, and make sure we aren't being followed."

This had probably been Dorian's last trip to Redcliffe. Shame. The tavern had seemed decent before it got a touch of majestic magisterial catwalk from the staircase. He took a handful of snow in his hands and rubbed it across his face. He hardly expected the numbness from the frostnip to feel pleasant but, for the moment, it was more pleasant than thinking and pondering. They moved on to the Crossroads by foot.

The breeze between spruces wouldn't tell him if he'd done right, giving a vent to his anger and spitting out the words that had been mounting up since their last meeting. It was one lesson Dorian could never get around, one lesson he could not learn: free himself from the indignation. Sometimes, it felt like Father's games had all been premeditated, preying on Dorian's anger that lingered just under the skin, to prove to him that he could only be _that_ without another's leash and collar: mindless impulse, a path right down to destruction, rage, resentment. It tore his heart to realise that there was a part of him that Father might have considered inhuman – demonic, even – with his diamond moral ideals to measure everyone else.

"Back to Skyhold?", Lavellan offered. He nodded faintly. They returned to the Frostbacks with the first guard watch.

As they returned, he needed some time on his own. Some time to analyze. After all, it had been the first time he saw Father in years. All the trouble the old man took to see him... perhaps something _was_ forming a crack in that thick head. Perhaps, had Dorian had a little more patience, maybe Father _would_ have surprised him with something... something to help him restore the faith that the flickers of Father's kindness weren't as brief as an outsider's judging gaze. But _what_ would it have to be to change anything between them?

"Do you always talk like this?", the Inquisitor visited him eventually. "Like one of you isn't there at all?"

So many things he'd gotten used to, the question put him off his stroke. He couldn't even tell if the Inquisitor accused Father or Dorian himself. Perhaps it was just so? Having justified his anger for so long, would he have overindulged it the first time it resurfaced? The man in the stain glass window still knew nothing about himself.

"He's a good man, my father. Deep down. He taught me principle is important. He cares for me, in his way, but he won't ever change. I can't forgive him for what he did. I won't", Dorian said. Part of him couldn't believe he could still think this – that Father could still be worth these words after he'd betrayed one of his main principles... out of what? Fear of ostracism? Inferiority breathing down his neck? All faith in his son lost?

"What did you mean before? How was he going to _change_ you?", Lavellan asked.

"Out of desperation... I wouldn't put up a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me... acceptable. I found out. I left."

" _Vir Elgar'Harel?_ My people know of this kind of magic. He tried _that_ to make you obedient?", the Inquisitor couldn't hide _her_ indignation. It was always infectious.

"It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he'd found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn't really want to go through with it. If he had, I can't even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn't like that Dorian."

He looked at his reflection, crossed by a leaden path between the glass pieces. Did he like the real outcome more? There was no use thinking. Choices had been made. _He_ had made himself.

"What your father did was... I have no words", the elf clenched her teeth.

"It's too bad he'll never understand why", Dorian turned back to face her. Maker only knew the favour she'd done him - she stopped him from changing, most likely. Would the change be for the better, thought? Did he need to change _that_ aspect at all, knowing that Father would _not_? At least Dorian had been there, and he saw that there was nothing to build upon. "Thank you for bringing me out there, even if it didn't work out. Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display."

"I think you're very brave", she said.

"Brave?"

"You knew what was right for you, in the end. I... know it's not easy to abandon... everything, and walk your own path."

Dorian's lips curled up involuntarily. He couldn't remember being called _that_ for... very long. Had it _ever_ happened in the years that counted as his own, it must have been lost in the maze he could not, or did not want to, recall. But then, she, who could be the most important person in Thedas of the time; _she_ , whom some called the Herald of the Herald... she believed in him, just as he was inclined to believe in her.

"At any rate... time to drink myself into a stupor. It's been that sort of day. Join me sometime, if you've a mind", he saluted her goodbye. What was one drop of ointment in a jar of flies, he kept that promise. He got obliterated, lit up like a Satinalia display, polluted like a mustached fish... The upheaval of the recent days drew its last straw. May Felix forgive him, but he hadn't gotten _that_ drunk since the slums of Minrathous... and he'd make up for it one day soon, one day soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Vir Elgar'Harel - I tried to make an elvhen name for mind controlling magic. It's three words put together: way - spirit - the meaning of "harel" that covers lie/falsity/fraud.


	27. Patching up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian feels he cannot leave some matters unresolved. After hearing him out, Amalric offers to comfort him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic rating raises to E for... Reasons.
> 
> After the recent angst, it's time to Rest from Plot. This episode is mostly romance leading to smut.
> 
> **warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of dysfunctional families, mentions of past physical abuse**
> 
> **Smutty tags** : comfort sex, emotional comfort, mutual masturbation, stress relief
> 
> Hope it isn't too cringey.

 

He probably shouldn't have planned socialising while he suffered from the headache, but he could not even keep his mind on a book. After Ranalle saw him in the corridors, she only knocked on his door, holding a large jar of pickles with a "Drink me" note attached. Dorian's satisfaction from sending Father away empty-handed was just a child's game, shallow and transient. Now he had to battle the pining for all he'd considered good about his family past. After all, Father used to be someone Dorian believed in. He appeared the pillar of wisdom who always had an educated opinion. He provided security, education, entertainment, whether Dorian deserved them or not. Granted, Dorian was expected to live his life according to the great plan. If only Father had not needed to experience Dorian's stumbles as his own personal failures or social catastrophes... If only he could afford less ambition and more imagination... 

For all Dorian knew, he didn't want to revel in phantasms. He wanted someone real to remind him the relevance of all the fuss he'd made. The more he pondered, the less worthy he felt. After all, he had always been like that, pulled against the common sense and the mercy of all the people who refused to stand him up. The Inquisitor gave him a bit of hope, yes, but it started getting to him that he'd wronged the man he was supposed to fancy. And he could not stand the thought of discouraging him ultimately. He could not do it, either to the man or to himself. That would have meant his pursuit was wrong. That would have meant his family was correct – that he was chasing a dream, unable to compensate for the stability that he'd had at his fingertips, but one he'd forgone. 

He arrived at the Hive, as they would call the mage quarters, and found the cell where Amalric and three more men were staying... Though staying was an overstatement. There was hardly enough room for two bunk beds with clothes hanging over their rails like curtains, two nightstands, and a proper table overburdened with personal stuff, books, and mead. The Hive could be little more than a flophouse. Trevelyan walked out of the cell and closed the door behind him, having no place to entertain Dorian but the doorstep.

"I want to... apologise", Dorian hit him without rhetorical introductions, watching Amalric's eyebrows curve in a mixture of disbelief and sarcastic wariness: what could this idiot possibly mean this time? "I was an arse to you. I have a talent for slaughtering important confessions altogether. You opened up to me, and I should have trusted you more." What was the most difficult to accept, Trevelyan wanted Dorian true, not all-shiny, and truth had a pesky habit of striking him with sadness. 

His admired kept blinking.

"Yes, it is a rare sight, but I can be vulnerable", Dorian muttered. "And I wish to take it up with you. Figure this one out yourself".

"Well... fine", Amalric half-sang, still taken aback. "Would you rather go for a walk right now or meet up later?"

"Let us not delay if you've the time", Dorian replied. Later, he could have changed his mind and find other ways to stop jittering. Amalric tucked himself in a fur coat, and they walked down the battlements towards the tavern.

Dorian adjusted his scarf to keep the scourging air draught from his neck. In the crackling frost, his breath became rough and dry, each careless gasp burned in the throat. "Have you ever stuck to your own choice against everybody else's word? Against the rules everyone considered best for you? The very person they wished you to be?", he asked.

"I don't know", Amalric sniffled in defense from the pinching frost. "When things in Ostwick went bad, I could have just returned home. Unlike many mages, I had a place to go. I could hide in my parents' mansion until the situation improved. But after so many years... I didn't even know how I'd talk to them. As the youngest of four, a mage, a convict, I was not... indispensable to their well-being. Everyone told me it would have been the lesser evil. But I realised I might have been more welcome doing labour."

"You thought you were expendable to your own family, and you say it like it's nothing?", Dorian spat out. 

"Noble houses have a great need to survive. Obviously not everyone will... Match." And that was when Dorian realised: for Amalric, it hadn't begun in the Circle. The Circle only reflected and justified what these people would have never stopped believing.

"... So you removed yourself out of sight", Dorian ascertained.

"Is that so wrong?", Trevelyan shrugged.

"Leaving? No. What does seem wrong is that you make them sound right", Dorian said. They stopped for a while to take a look at the overwhelming clarity of the skies. When they strained their eyes, they could see the smooth perimeter of the Dales peeking through the Frostbacks. Dorian used the opportunity to slide under Amalric's shoulder and nestle his head by his heartbeat. "You knew they'd look down on you until the bitter end. You did the right thing."

Trevelyan patted Dorian's shoulder and nodded at the garden staircase. They found an empty bench under the stone archway that led deeper into the castle. He moved about right next to Amalric, bodies almost touching, ready to hold each other in another embrace. He had a funny feeling about it.

"So... What was it that you wanted to talk about?" 

He told Amalric what had happened in Redcliffe – that he had been tricked into seeing a retainer, that the Inquisitor got involved unwittingly, that Father squirmed like an eel not to admit what he had done to make Dorian cut the ties off.

"Among the Tevinter Altus, anything between two men must remain physical. The purpose of a couple is the game of Match and Breed. If you try as much as present another man as your paramour, you get ridiculed at best. Of course, they offered me ways to _manage_ it: slaves, secret concubines. I did not want to live a lie. My father... he always declared he despised blood magic, as much as he despised all convenient shortcuts to success. But my insistence... it must have broken something inside him. He stole me away from Minrathous and kept in his estate until I'd compose myself. Then, he arranged a ritual that was supposed to forerun the wedding ceremony. They would have put a barrier in my mind. Redirected my desires where they'd wanted them."

Amalric hooked his arm over Dorian's shoulder and let him lean on his collarbone.

"The worst thing about that meeting is that Father seemed ready to talk. More ready than ever, at least, though the right words still couldn't pass his lips. Now I'm not sure which one of us wasted his chance to patch things up. Maybe it would have worked out somehow, had I been less unyielding. Maybe Father wouldn't have been driven to the edge."

"What you went through is enough to never go back. I think I understand now", the Ostwickan said. 

"Understand what?"

"Why we didn't seem to get any closer."

Dorian looked down on the table. If he didn't want to be like his family, he had to blurt it out: admit that it hadn't gone as it should have. That he did not measure up to his own expectations. "It was never my intention to mistreat you. Pride is an awful thing, and I happen to have plenty. All these things like relationships and affection sound so easy and natural, but... I have no examples with which to compare."

"Let's just be good to each other", Amalric replied.

"Oh. Nice meeting you then, all problems solved, move along!", Dorian scorned.

Amalric stroked Dorian's jaw with his thumb. "You pay attention to your old issues. That's good. But mulling things over won't help. I think you deserve a break. Or perhaps... You'd like to revel in a different kind of distraction? This time, no running."

"You... are... impossible", Dorian's pout quickly turned into a chuckle, but this outward amusement was not entirely sincere. 

"What's so impossible about being comforted?"

“I admire the intention. I do. Though I am not sure if I’m up to the bolder sort of deeds.”

“How about a good neck rub and a bit of... frisky fondling? No pressure, of course, if you opt out completely -”

“No. Fondling is good", Dorian caressed the other man's hand. "Truth be told, I am sorely tempted to take the neck rubbing part at face value." Anyway, Amalric's offer sounded somewhat better than crying in beer and spiraling into loneliness, for Maker knew how long, before a new incentive would appear. And even that mostly to smack the enemy down. Yes. He definitely needed something other than anger and toughness. No-one had indulged his pent-up benignancy and innocence for ages, because hardly anyone gained access to it. It was hard to admit, but having a chance to reveal that part of him had been like a refreshing drizzle, especially miles away from Tevinter and its poisonous constraints.

"Can do", Amalric leant in for a kiss – many kisses, as it turned out, a cure for the frosty numbness lingering in Dorian's jaw, in his cheeks and lips. He pulled closer until their coats mingled into one fuzzy curl. He pictured himself nibbling the lover softly instead of the frosty air, the kindling excitement begged him to leave the snow-capped courtyard. The garments began to feel disturbingly clinging, the fur - only useful as the last cover he'd drop from his hips when he would finally feel too hot and too urgent. 

"I believe it would be nice to turn the heat up in my chamber", Dorian chirped. 

"Approved. Just let me get something", Amalric smiled and swaggered away, leaving Dorian with his breath too visible to stay outdoors any longer. 

He scampered through the flights of stairs to his quarter, threw the coat off and loosened a few straps in his leather attire, looking himself up in a tiny mirror on the drawers. He hadn't had the courage to take a peek for a while, somewhat worried of not being able to approve of the view. It had been so long since the last time he'd really _consorted_ with another man. All separations were difficult, but the latest one – shattering. 

It was when Father cracked under pressure of rumours concerning Dorian’s infamy. His lover's father was away, unknowing that his son would invite another man. It was one of these times that made him dazed with pleasure, the air sultry with sex and sweat, translucent linen curtains floating in a faint air draught. They could not embrace each other tight enough on these two days and two nights, wishing their bodies could merge in one amongst the breathtaking summer numbness. Dorian was mesmerised, moaning an ode to the name of his charmer, thinking he would never get closer with anyone again. Then, he remembered these heights of bliss cut off by sheer terror. Crawling backwards until he fell off the bed, tangled in sheets, then being lifted by a templar’s grip - one that transfixed him and numbed him down in painful cramps when he tried to defend himself with magic. He saw Aurelio Abraxis’s frightened face knowing that _his_ father would find out too. 

Apparent or subtle, an escape was an escape. Now, Dorian was not sure whether it was Amalric or he who had really escaped from the risk of seemingly punishable exposure. Regardless, there was no point prolonging that virtually chaste period, only acceptable as long as Dorian’s fears were justified. But then, he found himself having no foggiest idea how his encounter with a new man would turn out. He had sought comfort in sex before, but it had never been explicitly stated. Revealing the real motive would have been too... deep, too intimate. That someone went out of his way to comfort him sounded bizarre in the first place. It seemed that, through his offer, Amalric was willing to conquer something in himself. There was a bit of encouragement in that.

Amalric returned with a little bundle in his hands. "Here are some fragrances and oils. Always remember to make friends with an alchemist", he left out one of these small, nervous chuckles. He untied the bundle, spilling a couple of neat wooden jars and pressed scented tablets on the bedsheet. "Now, let's try this", he spotted a copper basin in the corner and let one of the tablets melt in the middle, heated by bouncing light orbs. Amalric stared at the flickers for a while. "At last, I don't have to rush, or to fret that I can be caught at any minute", he explained. "I felt like this moment called for a little bit of... celebration."

Dorian embraced the man from behind. "Such treatment has not happened to me often either", he spilled out. Amalric cupped Dorian's hands in his, and they held each other like that, standing by the evaporating basin, until the warmth permeated their bodies. The room filled with a subtle whiff of Nevarran lime and cinnamon. Dorian pulled Amalric aside and guided his hands across the series of leather straps that held his upper armour together.

One, two, three, the buckles clang under Dorian's left arm, letting him free himself from the leather breastplate. He kissed Trevelyan's neck and throat apple, harvesting his lover's soft hum, hoping it would turn into his own arousal as it descended with blood. He nestled himself even deeper in Trevelyan's embrace, and started pressing and rubbing against him, borrowing the warmth, borrowing the vigor. In return, Amalric grabbed Dorian's backside, his hands gliding on the smooth leather, futile to hold a grip on the buttocks. The coy bastard had it in him.

In tiny steps, Amalric pushed forward until Dorian dived on the bed. The standing one disposed of his embroidered shirt, showing his slightly rounded chest and stomach, finely chiseled groin creases, his cotton weave trousers unable to conceal a growing bulge. A peachy flush went through Amalric's golden skin as he unbuttoned Dorian's shirt, leaning over his chest and stomach, studying the Tevinter with his hands and lips. Dorian writhed impatiently, trying to trick Amalric's fingers to wander off lower down his body – for which he got pinned to the bed by his wrists and gifted with a sappy deep kiss. Their tongues swirled and massaged together as Trevelyan covered Dorian with his whole torso, tickling him with a soft strap of body hair. That hot nearness of another body, getting hard and tense in anticipation, made Dorian's own groin restless and aching. 

"Now... How frisky exactly do you want me?", Amalric bent towards Dorian's ear. He closed his eyes, relishing their embrace, and breathed out: "Do that thing again. Make me feel you all over me. I promise to repay my debt on the second serving."

"You've already planned the second serving?"

"If only that", Dorian simpered.

He followed the man with his gaze while the enchanter's stocky hands stripped him off the leather pant legs and green samite trousers, leaving him just in the painfully curved silken loincloth. Dorian picked up a few pillows to prop his back and elbows up. He craved for the view of his new wonder, a templar-to-be in a Circle package. Amalric unfastened himself swiftly, and by the oar of Danarius, he was shapely. Back in Tevinter, the view would have made Dorian want to be fucked until daybreak without thought, before the moments of elation passed, perhaps to never come back. This time, he could trust there would be next times to breach the borders of intimacy. He'd leave that bit of anticipation to bloom, to carry him through the bleak days. 

With his peach pink cock hardened at a perfect angle, Trevelyan fixed himself underneath Dorian's lap, lifting the Tevinter's impatient hip, and pulled the front fold of his fine Vyrantium silks. The lover's gaze stuck to Dorian, bewitched, as his shaft, textbook-proportionate and beautifully flushed in the shade of brick, leant away from the cloth and touched Trevelyan's own groin. 

"Now... that's a need", Amalric breathed out, tracing Dorian's slightly upward curve with a thumb, teasing his slit with tiny motions.

"I've been keeping it for a special occasion. Obviously, you make these matters ssso much easier", Dorian hissed with pleasure and laid his head back, his hands intermingled underneath. He spread his thighs wide apart as Trevelyan applied rubbing oil on his hands and slowly moved along Dorian's body, stopping to massage his nipples and the pubis, fondling his testes while the other hand spread the warm oil around his rim. A sigh of relief and elation escaped Dorian's throat – a sigh that turned into short, restrained breath as his cock flared up with new jolts of heat. Amalric did take it slow – too slow for the man's confidence, shifting the strength of his grip and stroking himself lazily with the other hand, feeding Dorian with the sight of an erection just as stunning as his own.

"Is that fine?", Trevelyan asked.

"Fine? Don't you stop." 

Amalric oiled his own cock up and started thrusting gently along Dorian's groin. His wanting heat, the smooth rocking motion of his hips across the slick copper-bronze skin, it all left Dorian aching to feel the man inside him all the more. He reached down to stroke the head of Trevelyan's cock, the Ostwickan's own hand wrapped around Dorian's, moving back and forth around him. As they found the rhythm to rock together, Amalric lied flat on top and let Dorian wrap his legs around him, pinning his body down and letting their cocks grind against each other in all the right motions. That was where Dorian wanted to be, kissing his lover's jawline whenever he moved closer, vaporising with the manly scent, fondling their both treasures pressed together. He pictured the same motions filling him up inside, stretching his entrance and pressing the sparkling spot inside. Dorian moved one of his hands to his own arse, circling the rim a few times until he slipped a greased tip of his finger inside, teasing the interior muscle to feel the tingling of pleasure. His other hand speeded up until his cock started feeling too tense, Amalric's – too hard against him, ready to burst forth under any more friction. 

"Now. I'm going to – I – aaaah – Yes, _yes_ ", with his raspy cries, Dorian stroked and kneaded them for a little longer, until he could only get a long moan out, until his mind was showered with a flickering welter of sensations. His cock followed with thrusts that brought him release, pulsing under Trevelyan's lap until the final pearly drop, the final quiver of his hips. 

Exhausted and lighheaded, he opened his eyes to his lover kneeling over him, bringing himself to his own finish. Amalric was gasping and whimpering, his abdominal muscles contracting as he reached the edge, his cock straining and jerking in the clutched hand, adding to their salacious mess. The man remained on his knees for a while with an absent gaze, then stood up, approached the basin, and poured fresh water from the pitcher right onto his head. Dorian turned his gaze at tiny drops tracing the man's broad back and square butt, and he knew he _had_ to pay him back for the service as soon as possible. Having washed the proof of their passion off, Amalric passed Dorian a wet rag, cool and soothing against the skin sticky with sweat, oil and sperm. Finally, he lied down on his side, breathing onto Dorian's neck, nestling himself in his shapes. They lied in embrace for the amount of time they did not bother to count. But while still in the steamy frenzy of sex, Dorian thought he could have stayed like that for all time.


	28. Spreading influences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next War Council brings news - the Inquisition plans to return to Crestwood. Dorian is included, and wonders how to make everything work in a place that wasn't very friendly last time he dropped by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some fuss about Cole, when it is announced that he'll be present in the focus range more often, and of course not all parties are pleased with that. At this point, Cole mostly seems to elicit fear. I did a little experiment with the canon banter, which changes the overtone of the situation - perhaps leaving Solas more inclined to speak up than he should be by canon, but I hope it can be justified by how much he cares about benevolent spirits.
> 
> The same goes for Dorian's banter with Mother Giselle, considering that her contribution to Halward's mistification is not mentioned after Dorian's personal quest; at least, she isn't called out precisely for enabling the whole situation, which is... a bit iffy. But I understand how the game could not give attention _that_ detailed to each personal story.

Sisters’ chanting in the gardens slipped in the last of the dream, as if to herald Maker's own disapproval with mortals' lewd exploits. After all, Dorian _was_ corrupting a clever, young man, leading him astray from the Chantry's guidelines concerning the matters of mage spirit. And his charm _was_ working, despite the occasional foot-in-mouth remarks – _bah_ , they must have only added to the charm. Tevinter had taught him to be way too touchy for a man who could get a taste of the darkest of futures any time now, before even whetting his appetite to indulge in true passion for any endeavour.

But there was virtually no plan to get a toehold in, no future beyond the Inquisition. The calmness of Skyhold gave them the soothing feeling that they had the time. But in the greater scale, it seemed like Corypheus had tied a section of time to his will and usurped the future of everyone inside. What were they left to do in their breaks from fighting? Renounce their reality, claiming that they would be victorious so long as there was hope in their hearts? That picture would not survive in the Fade for long once Corypheus ascended to his precious godhood. An eternal optimist Dorian was.

Even though he could not call himself a Tevinter without feeling just a little insulted by some particular rules, human minds alone did _not_ shape reality. That was a dogma whose defiance released the Black from the wretched City – something that made a mortal soul show its worst. Knowing what he knew, he had to turn that one insult into some feeble faith in miracles; he had to trust there was a power capable of cleaning the whole mess up.

The sheets on the other side of bed stung with cold, as if a coat of rime had crystallised between the ripples. Amalric must have disappeared at dawn to attend one of their ridiculous roll-calls. The outcome was hardly surprising. Still, Dorian's humble four walls felt bereft. So, _that_ was the next step – longing for a pretence of domesticity? The circumstances were not too gracious for such questions.

Skyhold's own herald's calling in the lower courtyard fought its way through the Chant of Light: "Hear ye, hear ye, Crestwood has been rid of the enemy! West Hill Bannorn willing to aid and trade!"

Dorian had been somewhat pampered by those lazy mornings between the periods of mobilization when he could lie in, tame his moustache in peace and plan his weekly outfit. But that downtime was coming to an end. Later that morning, he was called to the war council.

They gathered everyone: Pentaghast, Vivienne, Tethras and Hawke, Blackwall and another man in the Warden armour – the messenger who had loathed attention so much; the Qunari and his lieutenant, Cullen's second-in-command Rylen, Sera the archer, the quartermaster, the horse master, mason Gatsi, Dagna and Harritt, Fiona and her prime senior enchanter. They weren't enough seats by the walls, so some of the guests ended up standing by the wall.

"We have many points of agenda for today. First, as you might have heard, our forces, supported by the banns of West Hill and Oswin, have fended off the outlaws from Caer Bronach and, with some struggle, the group of red templars by the quarries. We will speak about the chances this creates in the Northern bannorns. Next, we will discuss the report from the talks with the Val Royeaux University scholars. Then, we should decide how to distribute our resources between Empress Celene's Summersday Ball and our excursion to the Western Approach. Last but not least, the Inquisitor wished to acquaintance everyone with a new... companion."

Heavy door wings creaked, and the Inquisitor walked in. Two steps behind her, testing the ground underneath as if he could float away any minute – no-one else than the Scarecrow Boy, all visible and most mundane in his hat and ragged clothes, with so many patches that one could not tell whether the original cloth was still underneath. Solas closed the parade, leering, hands behind his back, battle-ready – a stance taken by magisters for poise rather than real threat. Disappointed gasps and murmurs went through the hall.

"So, at last you've convinced this... entity to end its cowardly refuge?", Vivienne sneered. "Now everyone can know the demon by its face. I'm only surprised it's been keeping the _same_ one all along."

"Perhaps it is so because he is _not_ a demon", Solas drawled.

"No benevolent spirit would take a form so elaborate."

"That _you_ have never met a benevolent spirit does not mean they are _all_ fables, Enchanter", the apostate barked back. "Inquisitor and I have spoken to Cole, and we're inclined to trust his intentions. In time, we will learn more about his history and his unique nature."

"So great is your trust that you gave it a pet name", the First Court Enchanter pouted.

"And the results thereof are far better than imputing demonic nature to someone so vulnerable", the elf did not let go.

"Ah. So you do admit it _is_ vulnerable."

"That is precisely what I mean: inclined to _receive_ wounds, not to deal them", Solas hissed, his zeal bubbling underneath. He must have been preparing for this for too long.

"The spirit helped us evacuate Haven and cared for Chancellor Roderick in his dying hour. Some people say he temporarily relieved them of pain and hunger when we were marching to Skyhold. If he is capable of such deeds, should we not show him examples of hope and compassion instead of hateful banter?", Leliana called out. The spirit Cole clutched Solas's sleeve and whispered something into his ear.

"If you repeat something a thousand times, you always see it become _your_ reality, one way or another. Hammering _evil nature_ in the kid's head isn't the prettiest of greetings", Tethras said.

"The kid can jump across ceiling beams like a damn squirrel. That's _creepy_ ", the Qunari leader drawled.

"Lady Inquisitor, I would not recommend that we _simply_ let him out into battle", Cullen called, seconded by Pentaghast:

"We cannot risk harming innocents. That is all I ask you to consider."

"I intend to grant Cole whatever I deem hospitable", Lavellan cut the discussion off. "We're here to aid the lost and bereft. Human or spirit, I don't care. It's about time you started learning from things you deem unusual instead of letting fear drag you about. If friendliness is not an option, then let him be a lesson on patience and overcoming prejudice. He will slowly but surely start attending our operations wherever his presence is useful", she raised her voice, and the silence around was getting tense. "Now, to other topics."

"N-no, this is fine - ", Cole stuttered. "Help the hurt, save the small. If I lose myself – if I become the demon – cut me down."

"I _will_ do it. Do not doubt me", the Nevarran replied.

"Good", he said.

"You... you're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes. I hope you are, too."

"I...", the Seeker went short of words.

Solas winced in a familiar kind of pain, the pain of truth that should yet should not stand, compassion battling precaution. He grabbed Cole by his sleeve and both walked out of the hall.

Cullen cleared his throat amongst dead silence, and delivered report from the siege of Caer Bronach. Which meant, Andraste be praised, more bad news: having opened the lake dam, the Inquisition uncovered the old Crestwood settlement with possessions still lying in chests, all except in the mayor's house. When they returned to the new village, the mayor himself was not to be found – but he had left a note. He confessed to having flooded the whole village... with the tainted refugees from the Bligh inside. Their worries had proven true – the area might have been contaminated. For a negotiated toll, the bann of West Hill allowed the Inquisition to reclaim the land for research purposes.

"There are still red lyrium veins that pose a threat. But, with arrangements made in Val Royeaux with doctor Emile Lemieux from the University of Orlais, we might turn Crestwood into a research site with its headquarters in Caer Bronach", Cullen carried on. "There, we hope to neutralise the local vein of red lyrium, and to study the intermediate effects the taint has on soil and water. All the inhabitants will be evacuated. The area shall be available to the guards and research parties only."

That meant Dorian was moving to the land that stank of a month-old wet rag, where his paramour had almost get himself killed by touching red lyrium. Lemieux probably had not tried any of his formulas out on the bloody thing yet, so the journey would undoubtedly be spiced up with unforeseen consequences. The first thing Dorian needed to prepare was a fair supply of lotus, white skullcap and spindleweed tincture... for the nerves. Or a much simpler tincture, made of liquor and spirit, and something for the taste.

"Any potential participant should know that red lyrium is deadly, and our intervention has a great chance to fail in making it any less so", he spoke up.

"I want the mage team to stay in reserve, organising work from the fortress and providing healing supplies. I will stay in Crestwood until I've closed the rift", the Inquisitor said. "Later on, Varric will supervise everything we do with red lyrium, based on his experience."

"I will try to get us a containment unit like the one in Kirkwall", the dwarf said.

"We plan to include everything you might need: laboratories for alchemists and enchanters, an advanced infirmary, a sample vault, as well as a trading post", Josephine replied. "If... the funds allow, of course."

"We'll post a request for donations... again", Cullen sighed. "In the meantime, we _could_ court a few Orlesian nobles to loosen their poaches."

In the next point, Vivienne reported their trip to Val Royeaux, including the unfortunate incident which threatened to fray the Orlesian doctor's reputation. The conclusion was clear: someone connected with the enemy forces might have set their eyes on Lemieux, and sabotaged his research using unrelated parties. It was in the Inquisition's interest not only to protect the findings, but also to track the masterminds of that sabotage down, and to neutralise them with all the grace appropriate for The Game. Dorian was advised to make sure that the Orlesian was greeted and accommodated in Crestwood properly, which meant a slightly more festive supper with an introduction from those who had not been present in Val Royeaux.

When these instructions had been delivered, Dorian was released from the rest of deliberations – and, frankly, he found himself quite weary and craving for a light read before he'd have to notify his team. He knew that Amalric would not like it. Dagna, on the other hand, would not tolerate any hesitation or sluggishness. What might have been the hardest part of that journey, they had to measure up to the expectations, despite their previous experiences from Crestwood. Dorian had a new idea hanging around his head: perhaps that was an opportunity to prove... whatever Amalric could have expected. A bit of support in case of bad dreams or bouts of fear would do no harm to either of them. And it would have made it a little bit easier to request... Dorian could not believe his own thoughts. Shared quarters. Not only when it would suit their particular need, though that would have been a nice asset...

While in the library, he was passed by Giselle of Jader throwing a slightly condescending glare in his general direction. It was now or never, his chance to put _that_ record straight.

"So good to meet you", he called out with fake joy. "There is a rather pressing matter nobody else could assist me with. Would you be so kind to explain -", he took a letter out of one of his pockets, "how exactly did you get in touch with my dear father, magister Halward of House Pavus?"

The trepidation on the woman's face nearly matched her disappointed. "So... the Inquisitor told you."

"Of course she _told_ me. She's an honest woman. So, I hope, are _you_ , at the end of the day. Because I do _not_ fancy being lied to."

"I met the magister... once. He stayed in our Chantry to thank for a safe journey, and praised our maintenance. As to why he chose me to address a letter about you... I do not know. But he sounded worried, and what he wrote... rang true."

Curse all the well-meaning helpers with their _concern,_ but only for the most superficial appearances of things! Anything to think they'd scored a good deed. To think that she could judge father's intentions better...

"What did he promise to you? Trade? Investments? Or did a donation come in exchange for a small favour?", Dorian scoffed.

"These accusations are outrageous!", the woman squawked.

"Outrageous is how you conveniently put the pieces together as if you knew _anything_ about me _or_ my family", Dorian's hands drew wild circles in the air, giving an outlet for his anger. "In your unmistakable mind of a gregarious creature, you bought the first story you heard!"

"Your actions are not invisible, young man. Neither are your drives. I cannot allow you to harm the Inquisitor with your prompts. I don't know what you think you're doing -"

"I'm being clucked at by a hen, _evidently_ ", Dorian shot back.

"Don't play the fool with me, young man!"

"If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you."

"Your glib tongue does you no credit."

"You'd be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, your _Reverence_."

She inhaled with all the indignation she could muster. Which made her shut up for long enough that the Inquisitor came up running, wondering what was that squabble heard in the entire rotunda. Finally, someone to possibly have some impact on all that milling around.

"It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my _undue influence_ over you."

"It is just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks -", the clerk started backing away.

"You might need to spell it out, my dear", Dorian replied. It wasn't hard to imagine the appearances of things that were the most common material for undue rumours. And it was not surprising at all that some took Dorian for a slick seducer. What baffled him was how easy people picked most unlikely pairings... or maybe that was the point. A Dalish and a Tevinter, two evils matched together... an idea no less than sickening.

"This man... is of Tevinter, his presence at your side, the rumours alone...", the revered mother carried on.

"Rumours? What rumours? I'd love to hear them", Lavellan inquired.

"I... could not repeat them, your Worship."

"Repeat? So you've shared them before?"

"I... see."

How docile Giselle had turned _now_! Another sheep mistaking truth for what was easy to accept – a headstrong preacher to peers and subordinates, but a doormat to the authorities. "I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor. Only to ask after this man's intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness from you both."

The revered mother bowed in complaisance and backed away towards the chapel. All in all, hearing _some_ form of apology, however empty, was... something.

"What is she talking about?", Lavellan asked.

"There are rumours, and her concern is well-meaning, however misplaced. The assumption in some corners is that you and I are... intimate." And, of course, there were people for whom it sounded _less_ outlandish than for Dorian, which did not give him much faith in the crowd's observation and discernment skills.

"Well, in that case, my collection of men seduced with dark elven crafts is growing out of control. I must really restrict myself", Lavellan smirked, more tired than shocked.

"I can imagine", he replied. "Perhaps it is odd to say, but... I think of you as a friend. I have precious few friends. I didn't think to find one here."

He did not think, indeed. With his indifference to ladies, it was easier to tell that his concern for the Inquisitor was friendship after all, not something suggested by desire, not just a vain hope that friendship could go well together with... other things, and not be outshone by them. As for others, he was not so sure. There were... promises. Half-baked and fragile promises.

It struck him that he'd never paid attention to her eyes – almond-shaped, dark and overlaid with a brighter gossamer pattern, like the evergreen crowns. At that particular moment, somewhat... fogged.

"Neither did I", she replied.

"Perish the thought. I'm sure more people care about _you_ _–_ not only as their leader, hopefully", Dorian pouted.

"If so, you're the first one with the guts to let me know."

What a curious thing.

"Then don't speak. I detest confessions, and I'd like to get this over with. So, just allow me to say I'll stand beside you – against Corypheus, my countrymen, or spurious rumour – so long as you'll have me."

She looked like she could break apart any minute – something disturbing even for a debunker of rhetorically crafted myths like Dorian himself. Not because of the whole alleged Maker's providence, but because she was trying to be so indomitable as their Inquisitor.

Then, she jumped up and simply _hung_ on his shoulders. How eerie it felt to hold the whole weight of _her_ , a confusing mixture of impressions – a Dalish elf, a woman, preposterously rumoured the anchor of his desires, his leader, a friend, a fellow seer of the dark future. Indeed, he had not known heaviness like this... save maybe for Felix, who had felt _even_ heavier, for reasons that were clear.

"So much for the rumours", Dorian sighed. "Now Giselle's jaw will fall out of its hinges. Long after she dies, her skull will skip and jump telling the story of our dissolute acts in the middle of the castle library. Flying books, flying under-things... perhaps even flying limbs, if they spare some imagination."

"Now you're just cruel", the Inquisitor collected herself and let go.

"Just you wait", he simpered.

At least, the Inquisitor seemed ready to sit back with a cup of wine while the overblown stories unwound – which was all Dorian needed to calm his nerves on that matter. He'd heard more troubling gossip with more credibility, and there was no doubt this one would not stand for long. Well, there was one way he could make such whisperings entirely unreliable. He could have made the truth about his commitments somewhat... more visible. But that had to be done carefully. Unobtrusively.

There he was, another man's fool, racking his brain how to eat the cake yet keep the cake – how to keep the whole sweet secret of his actual affair for himself, while showing off just a bit, if only to make rumours the _right_ kind... the temptation was strong. But for the time being, the story of Crestwood needed an end, and Dorian had to prepare. He did not intend to fail in contributing to that closure.

 


	29. Before a Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Crestwood, the team entertains guests from Orlais and outlines the plan for the next few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miracles happen sometimes, apparently, in the form of updated episodes. Spring is coming. DA 4 is not.

Even the clouds grew weary of Crestwood’s bleakness. Wasting away yet unable to go, they dribbled with a sparse icy rain. The funnel of water, which kept the clouds hostage, stood firm even though the lake had been drained, kept together by forces bestirred by the rift. The whirlwind’s roar combined with persistent crackling of the strained Veil was bound to cause an outbreak of headaches.

A thin coat of wet snow crunched under the boots, uncovering mottled patches of dirt and grey puddles. The Inquisition hurried, as if the hills still eavesdropped on their foolhardy sounds to send out more unpleasant surprises. The real problem of the region was only loosely mentioned in the textbook guides: hunting economy hindered due to periodic sightings of lower  _ draconidae _ , sodded wyverns and gurguts, popping out here and there even during their winter dormancy.

Down by the lake, decay caught up with the washed up seaweed and wooden remains of Old Crestwood. Stronger even than the haze of the weakened Veil was the whiff of sulphur and mould coming downwind.

The Inquisitor waved at her small party of scouts. She would search for a way to the rift through the caverns underneath the Inquisition’s Northern camp, now accessible from the previously submerged area.

“Try not to linger for too long. This is where we’re told the tainted were kept”, Dorian said. Of all the curses in the world, he vastly preferred not to deal with the taint ever again.

He was ordered to proceed to the fortress and arrange rest after the operation, as well as the arrival of their Orlesian allies. At least he wouldn’t have to be anywhere near the lake when the bloody whirlwind had collapsed. He’d watch the rift being closed properly, from a castle’s watchtower laid out with fur pelts, sipping wine and writing his impressions down in a traveller’s diary.

Dagna paddled ahead, girded with not one, but two enchanter bandoliers stuffed with tools and sample cylinders, clinking like a wandering merchant’s chimes with each of her elated hops. Dorian couldn’t help but think that she still hadn’t realised the real burden, displaying nothing but her dissecting curiosity.

Of all the people, she alone was looking forward to seeing red lyrium in the wild. This only convinced Tethras that he should horrify her with his first-hand knowledge on the topic. Undaunted as ever, Dagna met his gruesome tales with somewhat perverse fascination. Which got Dorian thinking: could the vilified magisters of old be anything like her? Minds whose greatest fault was the lack of limits, neither in method nor in their goals? Some sources even described the ancient magisters as good men. In a being-at-master’s-mercy manner.

“The Veil has gotten weaker since the last time. An abundance of scintillating sensations, granted”, Dorian thought out loud. Amalric squinted as if he was having a hard time thinking.

“Sorry? I’m such a scattered brain today. The enhancing spell… I think I’ve refined it just enough to try”, the man said.

“ Yet you don’t sound  _ terribly  _ optimistic about it.”

“Last time around, I thought I knew what I was doing.”

" _You_ know what you're doing. What we _don't_ know is what the Breach is doing."

Every time he tried to reassure someone, he remembered how hopeless he was at it. The most effective way seemed cuddling up to a certain someone later, warmer, as in under three layers of down quilts.

The fortress assault had devastated one of the gate wings and nearly broken the other out of the hinges. The supply chain ground to a halt right in front of the fortress, dispatching across the nearby hillocks as an idle, chaotic mass. Guards and requisition officers played diamondback and filched the precious resource of ale while construction workers gently brought the doorway remains down with ropes. Dorian pictured his skull split by a studded splinter coming down, and half-heartedly thanked for the logistic delay.

A pair of checkered coats and intricate hats flickered among the mob craving to get inside. Too early. At best, they would get their share of the local wheeled cheese - the kind that seemed promising as a new, low-effort type of bludgeon, but wasn’t really edible, as a local tale told.

Dorian walked up to the motley company and declaimed his greeting, hoping he would be done with all the courtesy very soon:

“A single ray of the divine sunshine, at last. We are delighted to have you. I hope that, soon enough, the surroundings concur.” 

A figure in a weaselly full-face mask turned around and chuckled. “There is no need to dulcify! I would never believe it to be  _ that  _ awful, had I not heard a Northerner’s tongue infused with the infamous Fereldan sneer.”

“Unerring incisiveness speaks through you, Doctor”, Dorian bowed and nodded, though he was willing to blame the sneer on his very personal malaise, no less.

“It is not a matter of incisiveness, my lord. I’m simply familiar with backwater locations, from the Gamordan Peaks to the rocky hills of Hossberg.”

“It would be a _faux pas_ to offer a walk in the current circumstances, but we need not wait until evening to get to know each other. There was little time for introductions in Val Royeaux, no?”

“Indeed, and I’d be delighted to correct it”, Lemieux replied. 

“Since we’ve nothing better to do, let me introduce my associates”, Dorian nodded at his companions.

“Lady Dagna of the Fereldan Circle, I believe? Your thesis on lyrium vapours is a true sensation. Emile Lemieux of the Val Royeaux University, humbled and ready to serve”, Lemieux nodded. “May I ask, has your resistance decreased since you’ve been living on the surface?”

“Actually, I inhale weak lyrium solution. The resistance is not what it used to be, but I’m not as sensitive as humans either. Doctor Lemieux, I’m so glad to see these trials of yours in the flesh!”, Dagna chirped. The real sunshine of that sodded marsh.

“Have you succeeded retrieving the test sample?”, Dorian asked.

“Unfortunately, it was damaged. That is why I had little choice but to ask the Inquisition for patronage. We brought all the resources necessary to make a new portion.”

“And your assistant…”

“Ah, my dear Janette. Come, greet the Inquisition”, Lemieux beckoned at the other Orlesian. Janette shifted and bobbed again, the tight grip on her backpack straps giving away her vexation. 

“Such a variety of backgrounds”, Lemieux enthused. “Fereldan commonfolk, the upper crust of Ostwick, artificers from Orzammar, even our countrymen. All of it led by a Dalish elf?”

“We even have a Pentaghast.”

“ And you, my Lord, could you happen to descend from any branch of  _ that  _ Pavus clan?”

“ I am from  _ that  _ Pavus clan, as you’ve put it, yes. Though I picture myself as the shrivelled knag on its stump, more than anything", Dorian grit his teeth mildly. All the years outside the courts made his tongue a bit too loose, bites – a bit too strong. Luckily, this wasn't one of these occasions where a wrong reply to duke's anecdote ruined your chances for patronage or something.

“I shan’t enquire further”, Lemieux bowed in an apologetic gesture. Dorian's companions rushed to help.

“You could believe he introduces himself as a nice man”, Amalric gently squeezed Dorian’s shoulder.

“Remember not to give Sparkler salt-cured meat. It makes his wit heavier”, Tethras smirked.

Anyway, how great offence could they cause to the Game while being on their _home_ ground? Didn't they see it? Having grown used to the loose banter rather than diplomatic conversation, Dorian was _really_ out of shape, and it brought the shadowy sadness to sit on his chest again. This was not the lesson he'd learned about presenting himself.  “Forgive me, Doctor. This place makes me a little irritable”, he muttered.

“It’s challenging for all mages”, Amalric chimed in. “With the Veil ruptured and red lyrium deposits in proximity… we must admit our own weakness.”

“Rest easy, Doctor. No-one here will accuse  _ you  _ of tactlessness _ . _ It’s just our tough cosmopolitan friendship. You’ll get used to it”, Varric winked at him.

“I admit, I feel eerie even without sharpened magical sensitivity. We’ll do everything I can to alleviate this effect”, the Orlesian nodded.

“Let’s just get back to moving in”, Amalric pointed at the castle gate. “We should expect changes in weather once the rift has been closed.”

Dorian could now experience what it meant when a place was built to be  _ defended _ : little doorways leading inside were effectively hidden around behind countless flights of stairs and layered terraces. Soldiers who stationed there must have had legs like a bronto's hind. Only a couple of tents marked the courtyard where the Inquisitor had set her foot to drain the lake. An Inquisition scout appeared at once to guide them on.

“The fortress is still in raw state, ser. We’re doing our best. For now, you'll be stationed in the old tavern by the dam. The fireplace is burning inside, and we’ve scattered hay and hung hides on the walls.”

They crossed the dank interior of the fortress onto a gentle slope that soon shifted into a rocky labyrinth, meandering along the slippery foreland. On their right, a new path right to the old settlement opened up along the shore. The rift pulsed from underneath the water, spinning its anomalous whirlwind, dyeing tiny droplets on its edges into a greenish fog. Ahead stood a lonely building firmly embedded in stone foundations an outpost in the vastness of waves – now only ruffling on the other side. The rift itself was still surrounded by water, but a rotten scaffolding by the cave entrance became accessible from the bottom.

"Shouldn't these caves  _ still _ be mostly flooded?", Dorian asked. "Or did the Inquisition pour everything out with buckets?"

"There's a part of the Deep Roads somewhere", Dagna said. "They have their own drainage system. Maybe the mechanisms are connected. Or the caves and the thaigs are connected."

"If the original dam was built by Tevinter, that would not be unlikely", Dorian nodded. "Advanced infrastructure and tons of lyrium weren't such a bad deal for us being dwarves' golden goose."

"What troubles me more is that the rift is currently the only thing covering a  _ hole _ in the lake bottom", Amalric replied. "The water will want to descend."

"What remains on the surface isn't terribly much, no? Not enough to fill the caves again, surely. Let's hope they don't stay below water level for too long."

Lemieux stayed behind, asking Dagna about the plan for the following days.

“You’ve got the solution, right? At least you can make it here. Long story short, we’re going to sprinkle red lyrium with it. From a safe distance, of course. I have designed a tool to help us. It’s like a douche, only much bigger. And it will need a pump. And something to cover your faces from fumes and moisture, just in case… Hmm. I’ll need to simplify it. But not right now. I’ll put one together once I’ve gathered all the parts from my luggage, and try out with... water?”

“How much solution will we need?”

“A barrel. A small wine barrel should do for the first run.”

“ _ Oh sacre Createur _ ” , the doctor sighed. “In that case, we might need help.”

"Ranalle is an alchemist. I can make reagents too", Dagna chirped.

The doctor kept looking back at the scouts who carried his crates downwards, step by step, to avoid slipping and sliding down the coarse, frozen ground. Losing equipment meant another delay, and supplies would have had to arrive from Denerim at best.

As soon as the tavern door slammed shut behind them, they got round to unpacking the equipment from hay-filled crates. It was spacious, somewhat welcoming, even though the coat of dust and spider webs dictated the decor. While Janette and Lemieux were assembling their laboratory, Dagna hammered some kegs and pipes together on the entresol. Dorian stood by the bar counter and unscrambled the glassware. The rhythmical metallic clattering above and gentle clinking of the vessels almost made him drift away. Would any of this accomplish anything? A provisory contraption against one of the greatest horrors?

Something clattered differently, further across the lake, like a distant storm brewing. Dorian instinctively lifted his head, searching for the source. The tavern’s only windows were a couple of bare lancets, built for air circulation rather than the view. Having exchanged understanding glances, Tethras and he walked out. The sound lured them downwards, to the lakeside, where the waterspout from the rift broke off its roots and helplessly swirled around, searching for a new foundation. It was becoming broader and more scarce until the coat of clouds bled a single ray of sunshine, so crisp and refreshing Dorian could jump straight into the water. Which was still a terrible idea, considering all the wrack and debris displaced by the draining torrent.

"Looks like we're done with _one_ problem", the dwarf said.

"I knew there was _some_ potential in that location", Dorian nodded, watching brittle bands of light budding in more and more places. Just about time to melt that snow and get to work.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
